


Fall, Leaves, Fall

by WriterWithNoName1



Series: A Poetic Life Verse [3]
Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: AU, Abusive Relationships, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, Drug Abuse, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gang Violence, Gen, Happy is a good guy okay, Homophobia, I promise he gets nice things eventually, I'm so sorry Juice, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Juice with ADHD, Kidnapping, M/M, Mental Instability, Phone Sex, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Slow Burn, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-25
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-04-08 02:37:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 18
Words: 54,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14095239
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WriterWithNoName1/pseuds/WriterWithNoName1
Summary: Juice gets out. But he isn’t free.





	1. Lengthen Night

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys! thank for reading my fic! Check out my tumblr: http://let-me-finish-my-pie.tumblr.com/ 
> 
> Also I Just wanted to mention some things. 
> 
> Tully and Juice are NOT in a relationship, Tully is abusing Juice mentally and sexually, Juice does not consent to any of this and they should never, ever be near each other. The tag is there is kind of warn the reader to what is happening in the fic I guess? 
> 
> Also I've decided to remove the Chibs/Juice tag because the pairing isn't going to work with where the story is headed.
> 
> Thanks :)

         

His lawyer is younger than his little sister.

Painfully fresh faced and red haired, freckled, which is a jarring reminder of Half-Sack that Juice wasn’t ready for. Another dead brother, another body buried in the dirt; one of what could be hundreds for all Juice knows.

He doesn’t keep count.

Personally, he’s killed seven people. But the one he regrets the most is the woman, the mother of that twisted little boy who shot up his school. She wasn’t a real threat, she was an addict with paranoia.

Juice knows what that feels like.

He hasn’t had anything sweet for three days, and it might fucking kill him. The thoughts are crawling around in his head like lizards, whispering their not so sweet nothings and every sound may as well be bullets; they ping of the edge of his skull and make the world hurtful.

But he had to be clean for his hearing, if he goes in flying high and shows himself in a bad light there’s no way he’s leaving this circle of hell anytime soon. It had been Tully’s idea, along with some other pearls of wisdom between the calming verses of Bronte.

Guy sure loves his poems. He’s a _cultured_ racist.

He told Juice to wash thoroughly, shave, but let his hair grow to at least half disguise his regretful head tattoos. Juice can’t exactly scrub up, but he can at least not reek to heaven and back.

Finally, he said look as pathetic and harmless as possible; which shouldn’t be too hard for Juice. Apart from the weight he’s lost, and the exhaustion, he’s got a pretty little cut through his eyebrow over a disagreement with one of the fine gentlemen he lives with.

The guy was Latino, he called Juice a disgrace to people, his race; for letting a Nazi make a bitch out of him. It was the same shit Juice feels on the inside but this time he was coming from someone else’s mouth.

Quite an out of body experience.

Juice doesn’t care, didn’t care, he just wanted to finish his cake (which is second favourite after pie) but the guy kept _pushing_.

“Are you alright, Juan?”

He never said the twerp could call him that, the last person who used his Christian name was his mother; and she, just like Bobby, Opie, Sack, Clay, Gemma, Jax and uncountable others is dead and gone.

The guards pulled them apart when Juice lost it in the cafeteria, with Tully watching on, head tilted as if watching something mildly interesting. Juice is glad he didn't intervene.

Juice was muscled back to his box. Tully was fine to stay out of the fight, but he wasn’t too happy that his plaything got damaged.

The mouthy fucker was found slit from belly button upwards, laying like a dead fish in a puddle in the shower block.

One less cockroach. Still, the fact Tully had killed for him made Juice feel owned even more then when Tully put his hands on him.

No one so much as met Juice’s eye after that without Tully’s permission.

His entire world is controlled by one man.

“F-Fine, got the flu. That’s all.”

It’s a shitty cover story, but the kid buys it. He looks all puppy like and sympathetic, clearly he’s not going to last long in this profession. He’s the kind of guy that gets fucked in a place like this.

“We can always postpone the meeting, you need to be focused and ready. They’re going to grill you there.”

Juice has to clench his jaw to disguise his chattering teeth, it comes off as irritation. “No. We do this now.”

The thought of waiting, of sitting in his tiny concrete and metal cage with nothing but Tully and the thoughts for company are motivation enough; no matter how shitty he feels, he needs to take this leap.

He remembers something Tully said a while ago.

\-----

_Tully sits back, thinking, the gears in his hateful mind are turning. “How about I arrange something for you, baby?”_

_Juice is getting that cold feeling again. “Arrange what?”_

_“A care package if you will…” He folds his hands in his lap, considering Juice. “Just to help you get back on your feet, you deserve a break, baby, life has been mean to you.”_

\-----

He wonders if Tully is truly capable of pity, of sympathy, or if he’s just going through the motions to appear that way but is still stone cold on the inside.

Juice saw a movie once, back when it was all still good and he had club and a real life, called Invasion of the Body snatchers. It was a dumb 50s movie that had terrible effects and corny music; the premise being that aliens from outer space invaded earth and replaced the human population with identical clones. But the clones were devoid of human emotion.

Now that, that’s Tully.

Strange what Juice thinks about when his face is pressed into the mattress with Tully is grunting and thrusting behind him.  

Why a man with his philosophy has taken such a vested interest in what happens to a half black mutt is beyond Juice.

Most things are beyond him, the coke has fried his brain and now it’s sparking away like electricity and everything is white flashes and incoherence.

\----

_“Blow fucks you over, baby. You got a ninety minute cool down before the cravings start. I don’t envy you.”_

_\----_

Juice drags his sorry ass over to the chair he’s supposed to sit in, when he does the world spins and he has trouble focussing on the faces staring at him.

The kid lawyer takes his own seat, opens his briefcase and shuffles a few papers around.

It’s real annoying, the noise amplified and getting on Juice’s nerves.

Finally, his eyes begin to work and Juice takes note of an older guy with a beard in a suit. He looks serious, well groomed, if a little bored. Of course, this is his job, he does this every day.

“You’re Juan Carlos Ortiz?”

If Juice were in a better place, he’d give a smart answer, but today his responses are robotic and to the point. He’ll tell them the facts, nothing more.

They won’t take anything else from.

“Yes, sir.”

“Mr Ortiz, I am Commissioner Giles and this here is Commissioner Rose.”

There is a woman sitting on his left, maybe forty years old or so. She’s got a motherly look to her, a softness appears around her eyes when Juice studies her more closely. He must be a real sight if the higher ups are feeling sorry for him already, he’s practically oozing helplessness and apathy.

“You have served ten months of your sentence, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

It feels like a thousand years.

He’s got the scent of a wounded animal, he’s crawling in front of the headlights in the hope of some mercy.

Juice knows that she is the one he needs to appeal to. Giles is more detached, brisk in the way he does things, no doubt wanting to get this over with so he can grab a coffee and a cigarette break.

“According to what we have here, this isn’t you’re first time in prison.”

“No, sir.”

Giles frowns down his reading glasses. “First conviction was when you were sixteen, for petty theft, then again at eighteen for possession of Class B banned substance, and assaulting a police officer.”

They’ve got themselves a whole file on Juice and his sins, he feels mighty special.

“Could you tell us a bit about that?”

His lawyer looks slightly uneasy, as if Juice is going to bite their heads off for asking about his teenage binges of destruction and anger.

“My mom was a user, so was my sister. I found the stuff in the house and got hooked, even after I left home I still found ways to score. The stealing was to feed my habit.”

“How old were you when you used drugs, Mr Ortiz?”

“Fifteen.”

“Are you still using drugs now, Mr Ortiz?”

“No sir, I got clean when I was twenty two, I haven’t gone back to it. Don’t intend to.”

They nod in unison, and take some notes.

That should please them, Juice thinks.

The rest is just his own history being parroted back to Juice, he’s only listening to half of it, barely even that really; he’s only manging to answer when they ask him direct questions.

Criminal possession of a weapon. Drug use. Dangerous driving. Fleeing Police.

It doesn’t look good.

The room is too hot.

“-And you were stabbed in San Joaquin County Correctional Facility?”

“Yes, ma’am. Through my back. Missed my vital organs. I was very lucky.”

Lucky. That’s what Juice has never been, is lucky.

He called Agent Stahl a bitch when she came to see him and he meant it. He hopes maggots make a nice meal of her.

“What happened?” Commissioner Rose asked, she’s concerned; Juice can use that.

He shrugs. “Racists didn’t like the colour of my skin, I didn’t start it, ma’am.”

There’s something in her eye, she understands, or she thinks she does.

He’s sweating like a sinner in church, he’s fanning the collar of his jumpsuit but he’s burning from the inside out and it’s not working. Oddly, out of nowhere, he’s ravenous. He thinks about all the food he used to eat in a random order; rice, chocolate, beef, apples.

“Do you have any ongoing appeals?”

“No, sir.”

He’s crazing real good roast potatoes like nobody’s business.

“You seem to have gotten numerous injuries in prison, Mr Ortiz.”

If only he knew. The beat downs, the stabbings, they’re walks in the park on a nice sunny day in comparison to what’s happening now. Tully uses lube, which makes it tolerable, but each time he pulls out he takes more and more of Juan Carlos with him.

“I guess I look like a good punching bag to people.”

They probably don’t appreciate his tone, but he’s having trouble staying awake and keeping his stupid tongue under control. The room is tilting.

“Mr Ortiz?”

Juice concentrates on his breathing, on getting himself back to the now and ignore the clawing thoughts telling him he needs the white powder more than he does air. “I’m sorry…”

God, what’s happened to him? Why is he sorry?

Is he sorry he’s a junkie?

Sorry he exists?

Sorry he’s wasting their time?

“Are you feeling okay, Mr Ortiz?” She must have children, she must do.

“I have a virus. But I’m okay.” He’s gotten better at lying, Tully has taught him how.

“Would you like a glass of water?”

The offer, the kindness is unexpected, and Juice is taken aback by it. “Yes, please.”

His pleases and thank you’s may score him some points, they might not.

But he’s willing to try.

\----

_“The eyes baby, it’s all about the eyes. If you make your eyes look sincere than it doesn’t matter what you say, they’ll believe it.”_

_“Is that how the Nazis got people to buy into their bullshit?”_

_“Nah, baby, they weren’t selling a lie. It was the truth, which is the most powerful tool a man has.”_

_\----_

The meeting drags, the questions become more and more personal, but they’re only doing their job; they need to figure Juice out, they need to see if he’s safe to be let out into the world.

His lawyer checks his watch.

More legal talk.

Somewhere words like ADHD and OCD float around but Juice has negative associations with labels so when they come up he lets his mind drift during those parts.

“Do you have any plans for your release, Mr Ortiz?”

No, nothing, he has nothing. He is nothing, he’s dead to the only family that kept him sane. He licks his lips, opens his mouth and says the first thing that comes to his mind.

“I have a sister, in Queens. She’ll come down and help me out with stuff.”

Of all the dumb shit that has come out of his mouth this is an absolute classic. Maria hasn’t spoken to him in over five years, and they didn’t exactly part ways on a positive note.

She was pregnant, again, and despite promising Juice she’d get clean for her baby he saw her dealer skulking out of her apartment building like a weasel. He’d seen Abel, he’d seen what it did to Jax and Wendy.

It was too much, he let her have it. He may have gone overboard, but he was so angry at her. She threatened him with a kitchen knife, Juice told her that they were done and took his leave.

“What, may I ask, are you going to do for employment?”

\----

_“What can you do, baby? Got any skills? Apart from being pretty?”_

\----

“I am a mechanic, Ma’am, and I’m good with computers.”

She smiles, kindly, and Juice thinks that he could like her.

He can’t get a read off Giles, and he doesn’t know what the guy thinks of him; not much probably.

Juice knows he’s screwed it up good, all he wants is to crawl away and hide.

“Is there anything else you would like to add, Mr Ortiz?”

“Yeah…” Juice sits up straight, he meets their eyes, and he holds their gazes. From somewhere deep inside himself finds a steady voice. “I’m sorry for what I’ve done, I regret it deeply. I want to apologise to those officers that I put in danger.”

“I’m not sure that’s possible, Mr Ortiz, but I’m sure they’d appreciate it.”

He’s got her hooked, he keeps going.

“I know I deserve to serve my full sentence but I really want a chance to prove to myself that I can make my life better. That I can be a better person and give something back to the community.”

Juice lowers his head in humility, the edge of his vision is a snowy colour.

A sort of contemplative silences fall over the room.

“Thank you, Mr Ortiz, you will be notified in due course when a decision has been reached.”

They shake hands, and he’s aware his hand must feel pretty gross; his skin is covered in a layer of moisture which chills him all over.

His kid lawyer doesn’t stick around, he’s probably got at least ten other cons to follow up on today, so Juice lets him go with nothing more than a nod.

\----

   


“Sounds like it went well, sweetheart.”

Juice hates how Tully sounds, he’s not a god, he wasn’t there, he doesn’t _know_ how it went.

“I blew it.” He mumbles. “Made a lie about my sister, said she’d help me when I got out. It was bullshit.”

Tully looks at Juice out of the corner of his eye. “They’ll like that, they like a nice family story, brother and sister reuniting again to set the brother back on the road to virtue. Downright biblical.”

Juice shivers. “Have you really read the bible?”

“Catholic parents, baby.”

“What happened to ‘love thy neighbour’ then?”

Tully looks wry. “It never went into specifics about what colour your neighbours had to be, sweetheart. And don’t get into the thing with the Jews.”

Juice groans, a long, drawn out sound of pain. “I’m fucking dying here.”

“No baby, it’s called withdrawal.”

“You gotta give me something…” He’s begging now.

“Can’t do that, sorry.”

He’s not fucking sorry, Tully is never sorry for anything. He could hook Juice up, he’s just refusing too.

“Why the fuck not?” The thoughts were whispering to him again.

Tully took out Bronte, flicked to a page and began to read in his head. It was his way of ignoring Juice when he was becoming ‘difficult’

“It’s for your own good. They’ll be watching you even closer now, can’t have you strung out if you’re going back into the big wide world, baby.”

Juice growls with what little energy he has left. “You’re such a superior asshole.”

Truthfully, Tully likes the control, likes watching Juice squirm and writhe because Tully has denied him something.

He could get stuff from someone else, there are other dealers in this place, but the neo-Nazi keeps Juice too close.

“Shhh…” Tully comes to sit on the bed. Juice is clutching the mattress, unable to move except for the tremors in his body. His legs are sprawled out over the floor, he can’t get up; his knees are shaking too much.

This reminds him of when his appendix burst.

Tully pets him, lazily lets his fingers trail behind Juice’s ear and scratches at the soft flesh he finds there.

Juice makes a quiet noise. Unintelligible. 

“Hush…” Clearing his throat he read aloud until Juice has fallen into a disturbed, uneasy slumber.

Tomorrow would be worse.

\----

The ancient printer splutters into life, making a low whirl as the cartridge inside darts back and forth; marking the paper with a series of letters and numbers.

The paper jams, and the old machine is unable to spit it out.

The secretary sighs and puts down her coffee cup, rising from her chair in a huff to the failing printer. She’s been begging for a new one for months, but apparently the budget won’t stretch that far.

Cursing the penal system under her breath she gives the paper a real good pull, ripping it across the page in the process. Hissing like an enraged cat, she discards the paper into the waste basket and calls through the thin walls to her boss.

“Mr Russell! The printer is fucked again!”

“Language, Diane, this is a work place.”

At the bottom of the metal wire basket, the words on the page are readable in thick, black ink, cut off midsentence by the tear;

 

**_ DECISION _ **

**BY COMMISSIONER GILES AND COMMISSIONER ROSE**

**DATED:** 06/20/2013

**_PAROLE GRANTED_ **

_CONDITIONS: I will seek, obtain and maintain employment / or an academic / vocational programme. I will submit to substance abuse testing as directed by my parole officer…_

 

 


	2. Shorten Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and Kudos are gratefully received! expect a semi regular update schedule for this fic, unless life gets in the way XD 
> 
> (Weeps over Juice)

Chibs startles awake.

Its an old reflex, even after months upon months of knowing better, of knowing that the IRA aren’t going to kick down his door and shoot him in his bed; it still happens.

He blinks, his eyes work like shit first thing in the morning; he’s getting old.

He scrubs a hand over his face and feels the sheets shift as a warm body next to him also begins to move.

Chibs looks over and sees a cascading waterfall of brown hair over a slim, a pale neck, and a butterfly tattoo between the shoulder blades of the sleeping girl.

She’s half his age; he’d feel oddly proud of himself it if were not for an uncomfortable sensation that creeps across his spine. She could be Kerrianne’s sister.

He tries hard to remember her name.

Something perky sounding.

Cindy? Chole? Becca?

He feels guilty when he can’t remember the names, when the faces and smiles merge into one and become indistinct. It’s not just his memory that’s going, the cocktail of drinks and weed sent him into a stupor so pleasant; but also erased at least half of the events of the night.

There was a bar, drinks, and a pretty face; that’s all he knows.

Chib needs to watch it, or he might start to lose entire days too.

His mouth tastes like pennies, so Chibs rises and goes to brush and gargle in the bathroom. The face in the mirror is getting wearier with each passing day; he pokes at a deep line under his eye, disconcerted.

Chibs splashes some cold water to his face in the hopes of rousing himself from this, this sudden melancholy. It’s biting, but it does its job; he can now get one with life.

By the time he’s taken a piss and left the bathroom the bed is empty.

The girl must have slipped away while he was preoccupied with his ablutions. He hadn’t even heard her go.

Its stings, just a little, but at least it saves him the trouble of kicking her out. He’s never been good at the ‘morning after talk’.

\----

_“What’s the matter, not a chatty guy at 9AM?”_

_“Who the fuck is, now close the blinds, yer wee bastard.”_

\----

Chibs observes his bedroom for a moment, the simple, uncluttered space with a few personal touches that make what would be a bland room into something more intimate.

But for her, it was just one of many; he was one of many, nothing exceptional, and nothing worth staying for.

The scot goes make himself a brew, watching the kettle shake, whistle, and the steam rise into the air. It’s a sound that brings him comfort.

His phone buzzes. Chibs lifts from the counter top and squints at the words on the screen.

[YO. PREZ. SAW YOU WITH THAT FINE PUSSY CAT LAST NIGHT. YOU GET YOUR OLD ASS LAID?]

It’s Tig.

It’s Tig and its way too early in the morning for Tig.

Chibs replies promptly.

[THIS OLD ASS IS GOING TO COME AND KICK YOURS, YOU SHEEP BOTHERER.]

Satisfied, he continues making his tea. Once more, the phone vibrates in his hand. He glances at it.

[ONE TIME.]

Chibs shakes his head, but he can’t help but grin; to think what he kind of riffraff he’s associating with these days, what would his mother say?

\----

Juice has been clean for five days now, and it’s been about as pleasant as having scrotum chewed off by Dobermans.

His mind is alive, like a living thing. Before, he was a zombie, a sack of meat going through some vague motions of humanity.

But now.

Now everything is a massive sensory dumb into an already overloaded system and he can’t go on like this; otherwise he’s going to crash.

And crash for good.

Even Tully might be starting to regret taking away Juice’s little helper.

He’s hyperactive, hyper talkative, too much for even the most saintly of people.

And Tully is the exact opposite of that.

He just can’t stop _fidgeting_.

Juice bounces his leg, drums his fingers, and paces the cell. He does push ups, sit ups, jogs on the spot, anything to make him tired.

He’s a live wire, a switch that can’t be turned off.

In the brief reprieve after Tully finishes with Juice for one evening, he sits and (somehow taking up as much metaphysical space as possible) quietly stares into the void; just thinking, thoughts of world domination maybe.

He’s practically part of the furniture now, what little there is in these cells. Juice doesn’t need to watch him, he’s always in the same place.

The only real reaction Juice has gotten out of Tully thus far has been small, but it felt like a victory. Part of Juice is desperate to make the man do _something_ , apart from what he usually does; read, meditate, and fuck.

He’s like a monk, a terrifying monk covered in symbols of the Third Reich.

Occasionally he lets Juice in on how the ‘business’ is doing; who he’s removed from the living world, where the next truck load of methamphetamines guarded by his loyal skinheads is going. He still doesn’t quite trust Juice enough to give him exact names and locations; but Juice is glad of that.

He might not sleep much, but knowing where Tully has stashed the bones of his work would not help.

It was after Tully had come (literally and figuratively) and they fell into what was always what seemed like an eternity of silence, when he dropped the calm façade for a second.

How he can just sit and _be_ Juice cannot comprehend.

He’s also a little envious. 

Juice started talking. About nothing, whatever came to mind.

How he misses his bike, his favourite place in Queens to get coffee and a donut, any titbits of exercise yard gossip he’s managed to pick up. Noise fills the space, makes him feel less alone.

Chatter, chatter, chatter.

Eventually Tully lets out a noise that comes close to a growl, rumbling a warning clear as day. “Quit running you’re mouth, or I’ll gag you.”

Juice shuts up so fast his jaw clicks when he snaps it closed.

He retreats from Tully, not wanting to be at the receiving end of his ire, and instead curls into a corner where he’s been slowly peeling the paint away from the wall.

He’s picked away an almost perfect hexagon, exposing the concrete underneath. Carefully, he begins again at the edges, going in a counter-clockwise direction with his fingers.

Lost in the details, Juice thinks about what this shade of grey is called.

Battle ship grey? Titanium grey?

Grey, grey, grey.

After a moment, Tully speaks again, his voice slithering across the room and curling around Juices body. “Come over here, sweetheart.”

He doesn’t want to, the thoughts tell him he needs to peel away all the paint or he’ll die in his sleep because the thoughts are being assholes today.

“Don’t make me get up, baby.”

Juice is deaf to the world.

Eventually, Tully does get up and pulls him away from his wall. “Didn’t mean to lose my temper, C’mon, let me make it up to you.”

\----

“Heard you got parole.”

Why is she here, what is she trying to _achieve?_

“You heard right.”

Juice has no time for her, no energy for any of this. The thoughts want to do her harm, using Juice as a puppet for their desires; but he won’t, he pulls them back by the reins, for now.

But they won’t stay under his thumb for long, the thoughts are restless creatures.

Unser is noticeably absent.

“Didn’t bring your boyfriend this time?”

“Unser is dead.” She was always very to the point; she looks older today, somehow, although the amount of time that has actually passed has been small.

Relatively speaking.

The news barely has time to land before Jarry talks some more. “Honestly I didn’t think you’d survive this long. I thought the AB would have ended you or the Chinese were going to do it.”

Juice smirks, it’s a cold, lifeless expression. “It pays to be someone’s favourite asshole in here.”

“Yeah. You said.”

\----

_“Yeah, and if you're tired of things getting shoved up your ass, maybe we can help.”_

\----

Juice misses Unser, he always liked the guy; a shitty cop but a decent human being. There aren’t many of those to go around.

He still remembers the cup of piss; thinking about it gives him a laugh, it's a much-needed lift that the cocaine poorly simulated. 

He lets Jarry stew in her knowledge for a while, lets her think about what’s been going on since she saw him last.

The woman looks older, more worn around the edges; like a memory beginning to fade away. Juice wonders what she’s thinking, she’s a tricky one to figure out.

Professional, efficient, critical. 

Her voice softens; which makes annoys Juice, he isn’t a child. “Do you have a plan? When you get out?”

Juice shrugs. “Impale myself on the first sharp object I find?”

Jarry is losing her cool. “Cut the shit, Ortiz. I’m asking legitimately. Do you have somewhere to go?”

Juice looks at her as if she is the stupid one, it makes a nice change. “What do you think?”

“That would be a no, then.”

“Why? You gotta couch or something I could sleep on?”

“Sorry, it’s taken.”

Juice raises his eyebrows. “Really? This is new.” He puts on a mocking voice, high and sing song, batting his eyelashes. “Tell me everything about him, I want the details, like, yesterday.”

Unlike Tully, Althea has a short fuse, she’s a quietly smouldering fire that flashes when you poke it too much. “You’re full of fucking sass. Just like the last time.”

“Why are you here Althea?” The use of her first name startles her into silence. Juice seizes on it and goes full throttle. “We were never friends. I don’t give a rat’s ass about you. If I’m some sort of pet project you got going to pass the time then fucking _drop_ it. I’m not here to be-”

I’m not here to be toyed with.

He can’t say it, the words leave him.

His confidence floats away, sneaking out the door leaving Juice alone with Jarry and the thoughts who awaken at the sounds of his distress.

“I could still help you, Juice.”

Juice counts the ceiling tiles, one, two, three, four...

                        

                             

                          

Juice closes his eyes, and shakes his head. “No, you can’t. I thought I made that clear.”

\----

Twenty four hours.

Twenty four hours and he’s out on parole.

He’s giddy, he’s terrified, he’s really fucking unsure of the future. It’s like walking a tightrope over a thousand foot drop, and the other side is obscured; shrouded in mist.

But he’ll be out of Tully’s hands.

He’ll be able to sleep in a bed that belongs to _him_ , and not have to wait for the clang of the metal door sliding open and the lazy sound of footsteps on the cold prison floor.

\----

_“Wake up, baby.”_

\----

Tully seems… peaceful, about it all. 

Juice half expected him to stall the process somehow, to get his poison into the ears of the parole board and keep Juice by his side on his tight, suffocating leash for as long as he could.

But no.

He’s got an oddly philosophical approach to the proceedings.

“You did your time, sweetheart, paid your dues.”

Did he? Is it so simple? Can Juice be absolved of all his crimes so easily? Was Tully some sort of penitence, a punishment sent by the almighty that Juice had to endure for him to receive forgiveness?

Unlikely.

Juice doesn’t believe in god, but he does believe in bad luck.

“You outlasted them all, baby, Jax, his mother, half of the MC is worm food but you’re still here.”

Just mentioning his name is enough to make Juice’s stomach roll with nausea.

The King is dead.

And Juice is still here only because Tully wouldn’t kill him. The Chinese want him dead too, but they’ve been holding back on account that Juice is too well guarded.

Even when Tully isn’t physically present, he’s always with him.

The AB members in here resent it, having this weak little hanger on using Tully’s shadow as a cover, but they aren’t stupid enough to question the man in charge.

“Lucky me.”

“Don’t be a smart ass, baby.” Tully crosses his legs, folds his hands behind his head. “You’ll be fine. There’s a plan, a big one, and it’s got your name on it. You’re made for something”

Juice lip curls with a morbid, self-flagellating humour. “Let me guess, your dick?”

He doesn’t even chuckle.

Juice would have gotten a laugh out of Chibs, Bobby, or maybe even Tig.

“Your words, not mine, baby.” Tully’s eyes drift across the room and meet Juice’s own.

Juice immediately makes a show of submission by drawing himself back a little; this is a part he has to play. Tully is more tolerant of his eccentricities if Juice makes him feel like a big, scary badass.

The lowest ranking member of the pack can get favours from the alpha wolf by bolstering his ego.

\----

Once, in the yard, he went to Tully without being called over. Of course he and his pit bulls were inhabiting the only shady spot from the unseasonal heat wave, and no one would come within a few hundred feet of them.

They are all segregated; Blacks, Latinos, Chinese.

Juice fits in nowhere, his colours ran into each other.

He tried to look causal, walking along, went over with his chin raised and his hands in his pockets; as if he were merely taking a stroll.

Heads turned, bets were being placed; he was almost sorry to disappoint them, there would be no beat down today.

Juice cleared his throat.

Tully acknowledged him cooly, as if Juice were a stray cat that had come begging for scraps. “You need something, baby?”

A few of the AB snickered, they knew what Juice was. It was no secret to them.

Juice had flushed, feeling exposed and raw in front the half a dozen pairs of mean, beady eyes. “Can I sit here? It’s too damn hot everywhere else.”

No one moved, only a few milky droplets of sweat dripped down the shaved heads of Tully’s entourage.

“…Why not.” Tully indicated a spot right next to his left leg.

He wanted Juice to sit at his feet. In the dirt.

He cringes on the inside, but Juice settles down by Tully’s knee, enjoying being out of the blinding light of the sun. The small, almost insignificant things matter a lot to him inside Stockton.

Tully’s bulk blocks the sun, his outline glows orange as the fiery ball burns behind him.

Juice is thankful beyond words that Tully doesn’t start to pet him in front of the other inmates.

\----

Ten Hours.

“Do something for me?” Tully asks.

It’s strange being asked, Tully never asks for things. He takes, he gets.

Juice is already suspicious. “What?” he asks.

Tully’s face moves into that plastic, rigid doll smirk that makes Juice almost certain he’s some kind of automaton.

“Grow out your hair. When you get out.”

That… is not what Juice is expecting. Of all the things he thought of, that wasn’t it. He has no idea how to respond to that.

He blinks, trying to break down the comment in his mind for some sort of hidden meaning. “Er…”

“Just say you will.” There’s a shift in his face, a movement behind his glassy irises. Tullly is imagining something, fantasising, perhaps.

He’s gone down a rabbit hole, and Juice doesn’t intend to follow him.

Juice lets out a nervous laugh, having no other way to respond to the bizarre request. “...okie dokie.”

Tully can seem to be completely non-moving, and still get things done; he can also be quicker than you expect.

Juice is yanked by the collar of his prison uniform, and before his brain can even think of a response to the danger his lips are smothered by Tully’s.

Tully has never kissed him on the mouth before.

He’s kissed Juice’s neck, his forehead, even his shoulders, but never has his crossed this invisible line.

It’s violent. It’s a violation of a different kind, Tully’s tongue invades the chasm of Juice’s mouth and pushes to the back of his throat. Juice coughs, gags, wretches.

Tully tastes and smells of weed, and cigarettes, and perspiration.

Juice’s bottom lip is chewed on until its swollen and sore, his teeth knock against Tully’s and if he doesn’t breathe soon he is going to pass out. He grips at Tully’s hair, tries to yank him off, but the old Neo-Nazi is a big guy and he easily controls Juice.

Manipulates him like play dough.

Finally, Tully drops him; a string of drool connects their mouths for a second longer till it’s broken.

Juice rushes to the sink, rinses out his mouth, and tries to purge himself of the taste. He can’t get enough air inside, he’s wheezing and gasping like a fish on land.

“Jesus _Christ_ …”

“Don’t take the lord’s name in vain, baby.”

The taste is not going away.

Juice meekly looks down at his hand, it’s smudged black with Tully’s hair dye.  


	3. Every leaf

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back again guys!
> 
> Thank you so much for the support thus far!
> 
> First thing I'll admit is that I am NOT an American XD I'm from the UK so figuring out the inner workings of the justice system in California required some research on my part. I apologise for any inaccuracies. 
> 
> Also, the guys in masks in the chapter use some very hateful language, so warnings for some racial slurs.

The Stockton bus clattered along the road like a tin can kicked by the wind.

Juice leans on the window and stares at the white road markings whizzing by, and his head is jostled by the uncomfortably bumpy ride.

He and about a dozen or so other inmates sit in heavy, contemplative quiet; along with their uniformed escorts.

Juice is stuck at the back of the bus, putting him in mind of his days at school; it reeks of sweat, piss and every broken dream of everyman who’s sat where Juice is sitting.

It’s gross, and Juices wishes he had a wet wipe or _something_ because this is freaking him out on the inside.

\---

_“What the hell you doing? This is a crime scene!”_

_“I’m sorry- I have OCD and the mess was like, freaking me out.”_

\---

Its dark out, just passed 10PM. The lights along the highway make the thoughts twitch and scurry like angry rats in a hole, so Juice closes his eyes in a vain attempt to get some sleep.

The con next to him has managed it, slumped in his seat and snoring quietly; also drooling onto his chin.

Lucky bastard.

What Juice wouldn’t give to get one uninterrupted night’s sleep.

Juice has new clothes on his back. Well, they aren’t _new_ , they were provided by the state; as well as a $200 packet to pay for his ticket to nowhere.

The plaid shirt he’s wearing is meant for a man with wider shoulders, and the jeans he’s been given would fall down if he didn’t have the belt on the last loop.

He looks and feels like a little kid playing dress up.

\---

_“You’re so small, sweetheart, I could carry you in my pocket and take you with me.”_

\---

Juice has always been the little guy, the little Rican.

Small, insignificant, weird, forgettable.

Juice pulls the cuffs over his hands, trying to warm his cold fingers.

Finally, the huge GREYHOUND sign comes into view and they pull up, wheels squeaking which makes Juice want to bash his head into a wall.

Since when was the outside so fucking loud and _bright?_

Like a parade of the walking dead, the men shuffled off the giant metal cage and are slowly escorted to the ticket booths.

Juice waits his turn quietly, eyes downcast; the guards pass by him, focussing their attentions on a bigger, muscle bound African American man whose voice makes the floor rumble when he asks the girl behind the glass for a one way to Houston.

For one, mad moment, Juice wonders how far he’d get if he just ran. Technically he’s out of prison, but he would be violating the terms of his parole that he worked so hard to get.

Juice would be sent right back to that cell, right back into Tully’s arms.

He won’t run today.

Juice is tired, his leg’s got a cramp from sitting down for over two hours so he’s not running anywhere fast.

God, he misses his bike; it was freedom like no other, he could go anywhere, he wasn’t locked down or constrained by anything. People looked at him with respect, fear, admiration.

He was a man.

Juice stepped up next, looking down at the petite blonde girl who was serving him. Apart from Jarry, she is the first woman he’s laid eyes on in mouths.

It’s jarring.

Her tantalising, porcelain features are otherworldly, even her eyelashes are blonde; giving her a washed out appearance, almost ghost-like. She’s wearing a little too much makeup, no doubt to disguise the dark circles under her eyes that come with long night shifts.

Juice remembers his first job in at an all-night gas station; he feels for her.  

“Sir? Do you need a ticket?”

Juice flinches when she speaks, readjusting himself to the here and now. “Sorry, yeah, um a one way to San Francisco please?”

The lies he’s told are mounting.

\-----

_“My sister agreed to meet me in San Francisco, gonna help get me an apartment and keep me on track for a while. I’ll get to see my nephew and niece.”_

_“That sounds very positive, Mr Ortiz, I hope it works out well for you.”_

\-----

He pays her and waits for his change.

Juice imagines what would happen if he had called Maria to come and help him out.

She would be pissed. Beyond pissed.

She’s got two kids to look after, on her own, plus a drug habit to maintain. Juice is going to show up again and turn her shit upside down.

If Juice were her, he’d slam the phone down and let that be that.

The ticket machine beeps.

“Have a good evening, sir.”

“Yeah… thanks.”

Juice checks his change, with this and the cost of shipping his ass from Stockton to the station he now had $175 and fifty seven cents left.

Seven is an odd number.

It bugs him, it bugs the thoughts.

\---

_“Juice, lad, what are you doing?”_

_“Adding an extra fork to the cutlery draw, so there will be eighteen instead of seventeen.”_

_“…you feeling okay, Juicey?”_

_“Yeah… it was just getting to me, you know how it is.”_

\---

The guards walk him as far as the terminals, and wait with him for the 25 to arrive. It’s kind of cold, and Juice doesn’t have a coat, so he rubs his arms and blows into his hands. Goosebumps rise on his flesh, making him feel pimply and weird.

At last, Juice joins a small crowd of people (there aren’t too many folks headed to San Fran at this time of night) who shamble aboard and finally, at long last, the guards step back and let him go.

They say nothing, not even so much as a good luck or good riddance.

Juice is now under his own recognisance, and it’s a terrifying feeling; he’s responsible for his own self.

And if Juice knows himself (and boy does he) he’s not going to last two months.

They’ll find him dead in some mouldy little shoe box apartment, either from a drug overdose or from getting stabbed.

He seems to attract angry people with knives.

But first things first, he needs to get out of Stockton. 

The driver is nothing remarkable, just a chubby white guy with a cap pulled down over his eyes, although Juice sees dark ink poking out from under his collar; some kind of writing.

He mutely takes a window seat, happening to be sitting opposite a middle aged mother and her daughter, who can’t be any older than eight; he nose is small like a button, and she’s got a white blouse with yellow flowers dotted all over.  

The pattern is nice, makes Juice think of spring.

Her mother is obviously worn out, so she barely notices when Juice sits down. The girl, however, looks over, then up at his head.

She stares, but not in a nasty way. Just in the way that kids do.

“How come you got pictures on your head?” She asks, not taking her eyes off him.

Juice panics.

He shaved his head before he left prison, with Tully looking on, watching with the same fascination that a cat has for a mouse before it bites into its neck.

His tribal tats are on full display.

\---

_“Grow out your hair. When you get out.”_

\---

What should he say?

Her mother is looking now, and she eyes drift over him and harden slightly. Now, he’s a paranoid little fucker, but he could swear he sees her arm reach across the seat and rest on her daughter’s knee.

Of course, why wouldn’t she be worried?

He’s a criminal.

Juice remembers what he’s learned from Tully, he makes himself smaller, smooths the edges of his accent so it doesn’t offend the ears. He’s biddable, easy going, non-threatening.

“These? These are tattoos.” He explains and offers a smile that is gentle and sincere.

“They look cool!” The girl declares, then turns to her mother. “Can I get some?”

Her mother laughs, it’s pleasant and full of such uncensored love for the little girl that Juice almost weeps hearing it. His mother never laughed like that.

“We’ll have to shave your head first, Rosie.”

The girl squeals and throws her arms over her bushy, thick black hair. “No way!”

The mother looks at him, her features relaxed, and gives him a wink. “Okay then, let me know if you change your mind, huh?”

“Yeah mommy!”

Juice lets out a breath of relief that spreads throughout his body and gives him a feeling of wellness.

His existence is accepted, it’s going to be okay.

\---

Thank god for T.O and Chucky.

In the wake of everything the books of the club had become neglected, not to mention most of the original records going up in smoke with the old clubhouse.

T.O had kept his talent with numbers a secret till Chucky mentioned he could use some help.

The new member was proving himself to be more and more of an asset, putting himself out there with no prompting other than his own courage and sense of responsibility.

“Let me at it, I’m good with figures. I’ll help out Chuck.”

Chibs could have cried in gratitude, and Chuck too for that matter, and true to his word the combined efforts of Chucky and T.O got the books running as smooth as a new Harley. Not to mention clean as a whistle.

T.O, it seemed, had a knack for computers, well, more than Chibs, Tig and Happy had.

Chibs didn’t have the patience to learn technology, or those daft touch screen things, he’d nearly broken his Iphone when he’d to make a call the first time he got it. It was just so _delicate_.

When Chibs had lost his temper and gotten into argument with SIRI, T.O had gently explained that it wasn’t a _real_ lady he was talking to.

Happy was a hands on guy, he needed to _feel_ what he was working with; smell the fear, taste the blood. The idea of working with abstract data that could not be touched was almost offensive to him.

That ,and the last time Chibs had asked him to print off a document Happy had nearly thrown the thing out of the window; apparently it was low on ink.

Again.

Tig typed like an old lady, squinting down at the screen and grumbling at it when it wouldn’t work as if it were alive and doing it to spite him; it was pretty hilarious.

Even Venus was more skilled at using the internet than her old man. “You gotta get with the times, Tiger, we’re living in a world where you can get any kind of pleasure downloaded off the World Wide Web.”

“Nah, nothing competes with an old VHS tape that gets mangled in the cassette player just when you’re about to cum.”

“VHS tapes? _Dios mio!_ How old are you guys?” Montez affectionately called them ‘abuelos’ (which meant grandpas, Tig absolutely hated it) and that made Chibs grow rather fond of him, even if having a Latino Brother put him in mind of painful, raw memories of a man he used to love.

Restoring old cars and bikes was their business now, and Chibs has initiated a no tolerance policy for anything that wasn’t one hundred percent legit. No drugs, no guns, and no pussy you had to pay for.

That last one was a bitter pill to swallow, and the younger members of SAMCRO bemoaned it as if Chibs was asking them to cut off their dicks and put them in a locked drawer; the President was firm, no exceptions.

Quinn told Chibs on the quiet that he was queer, and wondered if the new rules included paying for cock. After some thought Chibs said yes, and Quinn understood and let him know that his sexual preferences wouldn’t conflict with club stuff.

The Scot responded by telling him as long as he didn’t arrive into work one day to find Quinn getting his ass pounded over the front counter it was all fine and dandy.

Here commeth the twenty first century. He wondered what Clay, Piney and JT would say to them having colour _and_ gays in the club.

It was a shakeup, that’s for sure, but a much needed one.

The ice cream shop was a nice front, and it brought in a little extra change when needed.

Not to mention all the free ice cream that the club could eat.

At around lunch time Chibs checked his phone, and was not surprised to see a missed call from Althea.

For a long moment, he simply looked at the screen. 

She was a fucking good lay, one of the best since Fiona, and they’d been together longer than Chibs had been with any of the crow-eaters.

Of course he was too old and wise to even consider her ‘old lady’ material, it was impossible.

Even though he was clean now, she was still a cop; their paths diverged long before they had even met. Nothing was going to resolve their fundamental, foundational differences.

It was different with Venus and Tig. They were both screwed up but came together to make a beautiful union of weirdness.

But Tig was Tig, and he was happy, so Chibs was happy too.

A tiny bit creeped out by it, maybe, but pleased Tigger had found someone to be with.

Chibs pressed a button and held the phone up to his ear, he waited.

Althea’s voice rang in his ear.

“Hi Phillip, look, I tried texting you but didn’t get an answer. Call me when you can okay? I need to talk to you.”

The scot replayed it, once, twice, three times before at last deleting it.

\---

When Juice notices the van, really _notices_ it, he gets a cold feeling.

It’s been tailing them for a while now, at least three miles.

A coincidence? Juice doesn’t think they really exist. There’s a reason for everything, nothing just happens; the universe can’t really be so unpredictable. Perhaps his brain will only accept reality if he knows that there a pattern underneath it all.

He sits up in the seat, staring down at the vehicle; Mercedes-Benzes Sprinter, off white, looks like the left front wheel is slightly deflated compared to the rest.

Juice can tell by the way it’s slightly pulling to one side.

Looks like the mechanic part of his brain is still working.

Why haven’t they stopped to fix the problem?

What’s so important they have to risk getting a flat on a highway going a hundred miles an hour?

It’s only now that Juice is hyper aware he also sees how alone they are, there hasn’t been another car for a little while; and the stretch of rode they are now on is away from the main traffic, away from any looking eyes.

This is wrong.

Then the bus jerks to the hard shoulder so violently that Juice is knocked to the floor. The tires screech and the passengers panic, the little girl clings to her mother with wide, dark eyes.

“Mommy! What’s happening?”

There is a crash, a bang, and the bus is stormed.

The driver tries to get up but a gunshot rings through the air, he slumps back, and Juice says a silent prayer to send the man on his way.

Men, six or more, armed and in white fleshy masks point their weapons in the faces of the terrified people; there are screams, cries for mercy.

“Shut the fuck up!” One of the men elbows an elderly man in the face. “Tell us where the goddam Spic is! Or we’ll fucking blow you all to hell!”

Juice lays on the floor, still, just watching.

His heart is thundering like a drum.

He’s been around the likes of Tully too long to be ignorant of what _that_ word means.

That hateful, disgusting slur.

\---

_“Don’t worry about them, baby, they’re just jealous they don’t have something as pretty as you to get their dicks wet with.”_

_“You really know how to flatter a girl, Ron.”_

_“It’s what I do, sweetheart.”_

\---

The little girl, Rosie, is crying, hiding in her mother’s shirt, clinging for dear life.

Her mother is the picture of bravery, stoic, face conveying nothing but the need to keep her daughter safe.

Juice thinks about Gemma, and Jax; whose love burned each other out like fireworks.

“It’ll be okay, honey, shhh…”

The sniffling attracts the attention of one of them, his stance showing him up to be nothing but a bully. He points his gun at them both.

“You get that kid quiet, bitch! Or I swear to god I’ll kill both of you niggers!”

Something _snaps_ in Juice.

His self-preservation be damned.

He kicks the guy in the fucking nuts, sending him down and stamps on his face; breaking his nose in a few quick kicks.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck it _all._

The other men see what’s going on. “Cole! Jesus!”

“That’s him! Grab that Spic and get the fuck outta here!”

Juice is seized by black gloved hands, hustled down the aisle and Juice realises a fight is pointless.

He takes one last look over his shoulder, he can’t see Rosie, but her mother looks stricken as she watches him being pulled away; helpless to save him. Juice wishes he could say goodbye.

Once out, the man Juice kicked in the balls gives him a whack over the head with something that feels like a lead pipe or a crowbar.

Juice’s head swims, his vision blurs, he’s dragged through the dust to the van.

It may as well be a coffin.

He hears voices, but can’t understand the words; Juice welcomes the dark when it comes.

Its silent, peaceful, there are no thoughts.


	4. Bliss to me

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay. I need to chill. Two chapters in two days XD

_“What’s the matter baby? You’re all jittery.”_

_Juice wrings his hands. “Can’t fucking sleep.”_

_“Too wired?”_

_“Nightmares.” Juice looks at him pointedly, it’s an accusation, but Tully doesn’t respond to it._

_“Poor baby. Want me to stay a while? Might help.”_

_It’s the last thing Juice wants, the few hours he has to sleep are the only hours he is unmolested. But a stranger takes over his body and says “Sure.”_

_Tully stays all night, and Juice falls asleep with his head in the old Neo-Nazi’s lap._

_The next morning, he’s alone._

\----

Coming back around is a slow, painful slog; as if Juice is wading his way through a dark, murky swamp.

Unless his eyes are playing tricks, Juice can see the inside of a van, which is dirty with rust and what could well be blood.

It trembles, he’s on the road again; heading off to a destination unknown.

Juice is also not alone; there’s a titter of laughter, and he’s extremely confused by it.

“Looks like the lil brownie is awake. Guess you didn’t bash his skull in too badly, Cole.”

They’re all here, though they’ve removed their creepy masks and now their pallid, skinhead faces are on show; smug and proud of themselves for a job well done.

Juice much preferred the masks.

They’re all grinning like devils, and he feels as if he’s not getting the joke.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

One, Cole he assumes, is sitting a little gingerly; and his face twitches in pain whenever the ride gets a little rocky.

Juice blinks, and rubs at his temples, this headache is quickly reaching unbearable proportions. “Something funny, guys?”

“Jus you. Lookin all dazed like.” The slightest man, perhaps mid-thirties with a thin scar running across his nose is the mouth piece for the group. “That’s kinda funny.”

\----

_“Juice? Hey? Did you even hear me, retard?”_

_“That’s not the PC term anymore Tig. I prefer ‘special’.”_

_“And I’d prefer not being stuck with a goddam shit-for-brains.”_

\----

Real hilarious.

There had been six men that had attacked the bus, but Juice can see only four in the back. The other two must be in the front of the van.

Juice takes in his surroundings, this doesn’t look like any version of the afterlife he’s ever heard of. “So, is this a surprise party?”

Skinny guy pipes up. “Sure is, brownie, and you’re the guest of honour.” He licks his lips. “The big man sent you a VIP invitation.”

“Can we skip straight to the cake, then? I’m all tired of playing games.”

“Oh… but we haven’t shown you our surprise yet.”

Juice waits for him to clarify, but then the men all begin to roll up their sleeves on the skinny guy’s go ahead.

They’re all covered in swastikas and shamrocks, in long verses in German saluting a long dead dictator, and one or two iron crosses. Their skin is decorated with hate.

Juice lets out a long breath through his nose. “AB. When did you become a taxi service?”

“Oh well this is on _special_ request.” Skinny guy scratches his midriff, his fingernails are black; Juice wrinkles his nose. “Think yourself a lucky lil brown bitch. Cole here wanted to take some of your teeth as keepsakes, but Tully tol’ us not to hurt your face.”

Ah, how considerate of him.

“But…the rest of you…” Skinny guy leers, openly, unashamedly, and inhales as if he is a dog scenting a female in heat. “He didn’t say.”

Juice readjusts his sitting position, subtly, just like he would if he were getting more comfortable; which is difficult to do on a metal floor. He knows if he tucks his legs in, they’ll have more force to unfurl if he needs to kick out.

“You ain’t into brown guys are you?” Juice asks, smiling uneasily. “That’s kinda gay, man.”

“Take my fucks wherever I can get’um.” Skinny guy slinks forward, prowling; his breath is hot and pungent, smelling like cheap beer and halitosis. “You _are_ a pretty little thing.”

\---

_“Don’t be nervous, sweetheart.”_

_“I’m not.”_

\---

Juice lets him get about three inches away from his face before scratching him.

Skinny guy’s reaction is priceless, he screams like a banshee and twists away; clutching his face and wriggling in agony.

“Oh _god!_ My fucking eyes! Oh shit!”

Juice watches, passive, and considers whether he gives off some kind of hormone that makes men go all rapey when he’s around.

He’s being a drama queen, really, it’s not like Juice dug his fingernails into his eye sockets or anything.

Skinny guy is getting looked over by one of his friends, and Cole rises (not without gritting his teeth, his nut sack took quite a hit after all) and looming over Juice.

“You want some love too?” Juice snips, fluttering his eyelashes. “I’m not a cheap girl, though.”

Cole looks ready to strangle him to death but a voice from the driver’s side of the van renders everyone silent and still.  “What the hell is going on back there?”

Skinny guy is whimpering. “God damn fucking wetback-! Lookit my face!”

\---

_“Hey, wetback, Tully said eat your food.”_

_“He’s Puetro Rican, Vincent, you’re bashing the wrong shade of brown.”_

\---

Laughter that reminds Juice of a chainsaw firing up vibrates through the grey mesh separating the back and the front of the van.

Juice squints, and catches a glimpse of a blonde buzz cut.

“Aw, did the kitten scratch you?” The man snorts, unamused. “Dumbass, Tully finds out you tried to touch his stuff he’ll do a lot more then mess up your ugly mug.”

Tully in reality won’t do anything _personally_ , he’ll have someone else do it, but the threat still stands.

Skinny guy’s face is coming up in four perfect angry looking scratches across his left eye; Juice admires they’re symmetry, all the same length.

“But Mitch…”

Mitch?

Where has he heard that name before?

\----

_Tully often talks as if Juice is not there, which is fine by him._

_“How did our delivery go?”_

_“Mitch says it went off fine, although one of the packages was damaged in transit.”_

_Juice has learned the code, he knows what they really mean; it’s not goods they’re shipping out of Mexico, its’ people._

\----

Tully’s lieutenant.

Juice hoped he’d be fortunate enough to never meet the man.

“Shut up you fucking pussy, and sit down.”

Skinny guy takes his seat, head hung low in shame, and Juice finds himself deeply satisfied; but also, recoils from that feeling.

He’s not a mean guy, he never has been.

“Gonna tell me where we’re going?” He asks.

“Don’t worry about it, kitten, just sit back and enjoy the ride.” Says Mitch, with mocking inflection.

Juice sighs, and brings his knees up to his chest, resting his cheek on top.

To settle the thoughts, he silently counts the six times table. Six is a good number.

Six times one is six…

Six times two is twelve…

Six times three is eighteen…

\---

“Ma’am, please, anything you can tell us will be helpful.”

Tessa Rooney had just wanted to take her daughter to see her mother, she couldn’t get out of work early so they settled to leave on the 10PM bus and Rosie could sleep through it till they got there.

They’re both shaken, the girl didn’t stop crying until Jarry had let her pet one of the police dogs; officer Malachi was perfectly happy to watch over the little girl while Althea got some info from her mother.

“I-I… they just attacked us.” She mumbled, trying to force her voice to remain steady. “The bus swerved and they shot the driver.”

Jarry nodded, taking some notes. The same sequence of events had been relayed to her by the other passengers; those that could talk about it, anyway.

The driver, Connor Piers, had already been loaded into an ambulance and taken on account of his gunshot wound to the chest. He was alive, breathing at least, but critical.

“You’re doing great, Mrs Rooney.” Jarry squeezes the woman’s arm, a blanket has been draped over her. “Did they say anything?”

“Yeah...” She looked Jarry right in the face and repeated the words with supreme clarity. “Tell us where the goddam Spic is… or we’ll fucking blow you all to hell.”

Jarry’s hand stops writing. “…do you know what they meant by that?”

“They were looking for somebody.” Tessa explains. “A man, he was on the bus with us…oh god, they took him.” She stands up with urgency.

“Easy, Mrs Rooney, you’re in shock-”

Tessa babbles. “They took… there was a guy, Mexican or something, had head tattoos.”

Jarry had rarely felt her blood go cold, and she’s seen a lot as a cop; there isn’t a lot that can really _get_ to her.

“…head tattoos?” She repeats, she needs to be sure.

Tessa nods, a few tears spring from her eyes. “Y-yeah, young, maybe thirty. Head tattoos, no hair… he seemed like a nice guy.” She lets out a quiet sob, using the blanket to wipe her face.

“Okay… okay…” Althea isn’t so good with upset victims, she’s a little too detached for it. “Thank you so much, Mrs Rooney, you’ve been a big help.”

Tessa nods. “Just promise me you’ll find that poor guy before they hurt him, fucking racist _bastards_.” Her anger makes the air around the two women crackle, Jarry feels it and is empowered by it.

“Yeah, we’ll do everything we can.” She leaves Tessa in the care of one of her colleagues and walks away; her mind already formulating her next move.

She needs to talk to Philip.

\----

_“Wow, I’m a popular guy.”_

\----

Juice has been in the van for three hours, forty three minutes and twelve seconds.

He’s had to piss in a water bottle, which is probably one of the most disgusting and humiliating things that has happened to him in a while.

Honestly Juice is half tempted to throw it back into their faces, if the idea didn’t make his skin crawl so much.

Juice thinks this must be what pigs on the way to slaughter feel like.

He’s eaten nothing but a protein bar and some soda; not knowing when he’d get anything else to eat or drink, he obediently consumed all of it. Even if it took all his self-control not to vomit.

The sugar isn’t doing him any favours. He’s buzzing, his blood is bubbling, if he has to be still and quiet any longer he’s going to do something regrettable.

                                        
                                                    

                            

“Would you stop fucking twitching? Jesus Christ you’re making me edgy.” Cole snaps.

“Can’t help it. I have ADHD.”

And OCD, and who knows what else. Juice collects mental disorders like decorative plates.

“What?”

Juice rolls his eyes, he didn’t sign up to be an _educator_ today. “Attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. I can’t help being twitchy.”

“Oh yeah, my boy has that-” pipes up a dude with acne scars. “All over the fucking place, throws shit sometimes. Doc gave us these pills but I flushed them, my boy doesn’t need drugs.”

Juice is flooded with sympathy for a boy he hasn’t even met.

Suddenly, they break, and Juice almost falls on his front onto the hard metal floor.

There’s a second of silence, before Mitch gives his orders.  “Get the brownie out. Walk with him, if he runs put a slug in his kneecap.”

Well. No chance of escape then.

The doors are flung open, and all that greets Juice is the empty blackness of the night; it’s not even dawn yet, the nocturnal beasts are out and about.

One guy (Juice doesn’t know his name) with a shamrock tattooed over the pulse point in his neck goes to pull Juice out, but Juice holds back and puts his hands up.

“Don’t bother, I ain’t gonna run anywhere. I swear.”

Shamrock looks to Mitch, who gives an unseen signal. Shamrock backs up.

Juice is relieved, he’s so over being hauled around like a sack of potatoes. Walking feels weird, his muscles have seized up and he’s forced to hobble in a little circle to get the feeling back in them.

“Feeling better?” Shamrock enquired, smirking.

“Peachy, dude.” Juice quips, his reserves of patience and civility are about to run dry. He’s furious, livid that Tully is _still_ screwing with him; despite being behind bars miles upon miles away.

What does he want? What’s his endgame here?

Juice is _nothing_. He has nothing.

No club, no friends, not even his mental health.

What use is he?

Mitch finally makes his debut.

He’s tall, taller than Tully by at least two inches, in his hand is a flashlight.

He’s wearing a wife beater with a low neckline, which means his glorious artwork is on show. He’s covered in obscenity, but what stands out the most for Juice is the face of a demon on his left pectoral.

Its faded lines indicate its age, and its style is a little old fashioned for Juice’s tastes; the demon’s eyes are a pea green, with two inward curling horns, tusks, and white bushy eyebrows.

“It’s rude to stare, boy.” He’s a heavy smoker judging from his guttural tones.

“Sorry.” Juice unconsciously leans away.

“Keep up, gotta bit of a walk to go, and you don’t want to get left behind.”

The rest of the men have formed a half circle at Juice’s back, glaring at him, they don’t need words.

Juice swallows. “No I don’t.”

Mitch grins, two of his front teeth are made from tarnished silver. “Let’s go.”

Wherever they are, it’s dusty as hell, and Juice is spooked by _something_ chittering in a scrub nearby. Trying not to let his fear betray him, Juice walks like he does that time in the yard; nonchalantly, head high, chin raised.

“Watch your step, brownie, there’s snakes out here.”

Just like a switch Juice’s cool composure drops and he’s frantically scanning the ground for anything long and remotely snake-like.

Juice has to worry about _snakes_ now?

The AB members laugh, Juice must be pretty fun to mess with.

At last, the beam from Mitch’s light illuminates something; a wooden signpost jutting out of the ground, painted in thick, black paint, DO NOT ENTER, TRESSPASSERS WILL BE DEALT WITH.

Classy.

There’s more, a chain link fence with holes in it, and doesn’t _that_ just annoy Juice to his core.

Mitch opens the gate and Juice walks through, finding himself among the dead bodies of many old vehicles. Its Trucks mostly, paint chipped and parts missing, slowly rotting away and it makes Juice sad to look at it.

From under an old ford comes a long, low growl from a chest too large to be a raccoon or other night beast.

Juice backs away, Mitch whistles and says. “Lie down, stupid dog,”

The growling stops, replaced by a nervous whine and an anxious panting. The dog is obscured by the shadow of the truck’s underbelly; all but its paws stick out, and from the size of them, Juice can tell it’s a _big_ animal.

\----

_“You like dogs, baby?”_

_“A Doberman bit Tig in the ass one time. He blamed me for it.”_

_“Dogs don’t bite unless you make them mad.”_

_“Well…I did feed it some crank.”_

_“That won’t have helped.”_

\----

Finally, Juice spots the trailer.

Houses aren’t supposed to have wheels, that’s just a fact that Juice lives by.

It’s got odd rounded curves that were big in the 60s, and by looking at its general state of repair it may as well be a time capsule from that era. Mitch shines his light directly on it, and Juice can get a real good look; his heart sinks to his gut.

The antennae has been snapped, one of the windows has gone somewhere and been hastily replaced by some newspaper held in place with duct tape. The few windows that do remain would look more at home on a submarine, they’re small, square, letting in as little of the outside as possible.

It’ll probably look even worse in the daylight.

“You’ve got to be _kidding_ me.”

Mitch strides over and opens up the door. With an elegant sweep of his hand he gestures for Juice to step over the threshold. “After you.”

Juice would rather not, he would _really_ rather not; but he’s in the middle of fucking nowhere surrounded by a bunch of guys who, if they could, would kill him and then spit on his corpse.

Reluctantly, he does as he’s asked.

Mitch follows him, the others remain outside; he turns on a light which is indecisive, flickering on then off again before settling for on.

The inside is tiny, the ceiling nearly grazing the top of Mitch’s head; somehow the presence of the giant makes everything else seem even more miniature.

There’s not enough space in the ‘kitchen’ for Juice and Mitch to stand opposite each other without their groins coming uncomfortably close. There’s a large chemical burn on the carpet and a lingering smell which tells Juice that this trailer had another purpose until very recently.

He can only image what the vermin situation is like.

Juice wants to dunk his entire body in bleach.

Mitch doesn’t notice his distress, and places a phone on a small, round table along with a key. The surface doesn’t look clean.

Nowhere in this trailer is clean.

“Key to the front door, and Tully’s gonna call you tomorrow.” He says. “And me and my boys will stick around outside, just in case you…sleepwalk.” The fingers of his free hand lightly graze over a Smith and Wesson revolver hanging in a holster at his hip.

It puts Juice in mind of a cowboy movies; clearly the guy has some kind hard on for vintage stuff.

Mitch is good at his job, real good. Years of practise, his meaning is crystal clear.

Juice nods. “Yeah, I hate that when it happens.”

The tall, scary man seems pleased with his answer. “Glad you understand, kitten.” He strolls to the door and departs with a cheery. “Sweet dreams!”

The slam makes the whole trailer quiver, and Juice would have more confidence in the structural integrity of the titanic.

It’s ironic, really, because now he has truly sunken to the bottom of man’s ugly world.

All he has for company are the thoughts, and the cockroaches.


	5. Fluttering

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next one up guys! the support has been amazing do far!
> 
> 50 points to anyone who can guess what breed Tully's dogs are ;) ps they're not German shepherds.

                                     

                                    

                                     

“You know, you could have picked a more romantic location, Lass.”

He’s right, a car park outside the _Jellybean_ is not exactly where you would take someone on a date; but sex is the last thing on Jarry’s mind tonight.

Looking at some of the girls coming in and out of the place, she’s amazed anyone could come here for coitus of any kind.

The thought of fucking Phillip tonight seems downright obscene; she’s got a job to do, there cannot be any distractions.

“Hey Phillip. Your phone not working?” She snaps, she knows when he’s avoiding her.

Chibs shrugs, puffs on his cigarette; a poor show of innocence if there was one. “Been busy.”

She swallows her pride, this isn’t really about her after all. “Sure.”

Jarry takes his arm. “Walk with me, you want coffee?”

“Aye.”

There’s a vendor that sells awful melted mud in a cup that isn’t even in the same universe as coffee, but it’s a displacement activity, an opportunity for Jarry to find the words for what she’s about to say.

They stroll away from the Jellybean and find a patch of green with a few wooden tables, nearby a swing set waits longingly for the next child to come and play.

“Gonnae tell me why I’m not in bed right now?” Chibs asks, stirring his drink with a little wooden stick. He stubs out the remains of his cig into the dirt under their feet.

“Yeah…” She can’t hesitate now, it’s got to be done. Rip it off like a band-aid, fast and quick. “It’s about Juice. He’s missing.”

Chibs’ whole countenance changes. Jarry can see him retreating behind a wall, the barricades are going up. “I thought he was in prison.” Chibs says with narrowed eyes.

“Got parole five days ago. But he never met with his parole officer.” She explains.

“So? He just skipped town. Cons do that.”

That’s what Juice is now, a con, a criminal, which is hilarious quite frankly considering the long list of sins Chibs carries with him.

“This is Juice were talking about.” She insists. “I know for a fact he worked hard to be cut loose, went to all the classes, kept his nose clean, even got off the blow.”

Jarry didn’t come to this meeting unprepared, she’s done some digging, trying to put the pieces of Juice’s unfortunate story together. “….he didn’t skip, Phillip.”

Chibs has set his jaw, his eyes are sizzling and his hand is gripping the plastic cup very tightly. “I don’t care what he did or didn’t do, as long as he doesn’t show his face around here.” He growls.

“Phillip, he was kidnapped.” She hopes that might inspire some concern in him, but the man remains unmoved. “I think by white supremacists.”

“Again, I don’t really care.”

“WILL YOU FUCKING CUT IT?!” She slams the table, making it shake, and Chibs jumps; he was not expecting that from her.

Jarry calms herself, but her voice barely contains her temper. “He was your friend, once. Yeah he made some real shitty decisions, but you’re not fucking perfect. Neither am I for that matter. So don’t you sit there and _lie_ to me, don’t you dare.”

Chibs crosses his arms, sticking to his I-really-don’t-care charade.

“You’re not made of stone, Philip.”

“He _ratted_ on us, Althea.” He leans toward her, hissing through his teeth for emphasis; she’s opened up a wound that has clearly not healed yet. “Over what? His Da being _black?_ Who the fuck cares!”

She’s not cowed. “If it’s so unimportant why was it in the club’s rules?”

Chibs is surprised by her knowledge, and has to scramble a little to mount a defence for himself. Before Unser was taken down in Jax Teller’s final encore, he had a few disclosed one or two things about the club he thought could help them with the Juice situation.

It had been a… interesting conversation.  

The thing had been only a minor by-law, but Juice, from what she understands of him, is a literal guy; and not the kind that would question the authority, question his family. Rules are rules.

“The world was a different place when the club was founded.” Chibs’ rage has dissipated into the air somewhat. “We’ve grown, even when Juice was still one of us no one would have kicked him out for that. It was a forgotten clause.”

SAMCRO was tapping from a poisoned well long before Jax Teller lost his mind.

“Not by him. I bet he studied the rule book, memorised it to the letter.” Jarry can imagine him, sitting up all night, scanning each page; then his heart falling into a pit when he uncovers the hidden clause.

“It was a fucking archaic law, Phillip.” Her disgust is palpable. “Don’t make excuses.”

“I’m not, lass.” He looks tired.

“He was living with that secret, _terrified_ of it.”

Terror is worse than psychotic drugs for making people do foolish things.

“….I accepted him.” And thus anger gives way to sadness, and regret. “He told me and I said it didn’t matter. He still…” He hits the table, overwhelmed, needing a physical release from the pressure building up inside. “Stupid fucking _boy_.”

He was a boy alright, a lost boy.

The next part is going to be awful.

“There’s…more, Phillip.”

So she tells him, and with every word that leaves her mouth Jarry can feel her burden becoming lighter. She’s doing something about it, she’s not turning a blind eye any longer.

Chibs remains silent, taking it in, letting it become _real_. By the time Jarry has finished, the coffee is now lukewarm.

“…how long was it going on for?” He asks, his voice a troubled murmur.

“Well he was in there for thirteen months…so.” Jarry resists the urge to shrug, she doesn’t want to demean Juice by any nonchalance on her part. Truth was, the poor guy couldn’t be brought any lower.

“Christ almighty.” Chibs rubs his face, and for the first time Jarry can truly see the years on him. “Jax… _allowed_ that?”

Jarry nods. “Golden boy not looking so golden now, huh?” She looks into the liquid of her own cup, wishing it was hot. “Tully wanted something in exchange for keeping Juice safe.”

Its sick, she feels sick. The fact someone can just be bartered with so casually offends her deeply. “I… I knew, I’ve known for a long time.” She admits, losing some of her bravado, but she has to own up to her own part in all of this. 

“I offered to help him, in exchange for info about Tara. But he wasn’t interested.”

\----

_“I have no chance. Neither do you.”_

\----

Jarry’s memories of him have become haunting. “He just wanted it to end.”

Chibs sits, and sits. He says nothing for a very long time. “…what would white hate want with Juice?”

That, Jarry isn’t clear on yet, but she’s sure she knows who will have the key to it. “Well, I’m not sure but I have some theories. I’m going to probe Tully. I’m certain he arranged the kidnap.”

Chibs is struggling to get a grip on this. “But _why?_ Juice is nothing to SAMCRO now, he’s also screwed in the head, and he was always a liability.”

The weak one, the runt of the litter, the one that should have gotten thrown out with the bath water.

“Tully seems to think he’s got some value.”

Now that, _that_ lands on them both like a nuclear war head.

Chibs stands, his arms are trembling.

“Phillip?”

“…keep me informed, aye?” He asks, eyes cloudy, but Jarry doesn’t draw attention to it. “But…under the table. The others will want Juice’s head on a stick, they’re still raw.”

“I’ll do that.” She promises, then, feeling she has put him through the wringer enough tonight, touches his face with genuine affection. “Go home, Phillip.”

He chuckles, but it’s humourless. “I don’t think I’ll be sleeping, darlin’”

“Me neither.”

\----

Juice doesn’t sleep.

He stays up all night cleaning.

When he’s got his mind on something, he’s a man possessed, a dog with a bone, all that and more.

It feels _good_ to clean, he can put his energy into something other than wanting to hurt himself or getting lost in the meaningless little rituals his thoughts make him a slave to.

The trailer is a garbage heap, it had been cleaned up only superficially. No one had gotten on their knees like Juice is now and scrubbed, scrubbed till the tiles of the kitchen floor gleamed white.

The repetitive motion strains his arms, his back, his shoulders; but the pain is nothing compared to the compulsion that fuels him.

The bathroom was an actual horror show, and Juice nearly threw up the first time he went in there to see what he was dealing with.

He had to steel himself after thirty minutes before going back in.

Using a dishcloth as a face mask, Juice used nearly a full bottle of drain cleaner and what lye he could find to make it sterile.

His hands were burning when it was over, but at least the thoughts weren’t screaming at him about the germs.

There _were_ cockroaches, but at least there were no mice, or rats.

Juice doesn’t know what he’d do if he found anything bigger than bugs living in here with him; even if they are filthy disease carriers, killing an animal that can’t hurt him seems shitty.

It seems even shittier now he knows how the mouse might feel.

\---

_“Should I shoot him?”_

_“No! Drive.”_

\---

He didn’t even bother with the mysterious stain on the carpet, god knows that’s not going to come out. Juice opens up the door to try and aerate the place; get rid of that _smell_.

The crickets chirrup outside, sending their melody into the trailer.

Finally, at seven AM, the place is habitable by Juice’s standards. He collapses onto the couch and groans, he has worked up a sweat and could well now fall into a stupor for the rest of the day. Is he out of shape?

Maybe.

It’s not like he didn’t have time to exercise in prison, but the thought that Tully might be watching him from across the yard was off putting. He’d stare, openly, with _ownership,_ watching the moisture drip down Juice’s back.

He’d push Juice against the wall, whisper how pretty Juice looked today, how much he was going to enjoy filling him up.  

The phone is ringing.  

At first, Juice is bewildered by the noise, that’s not his ring tone and there’s no landline in here.

Then, he remembers.

Scrambling up, he rushes over to the kitchen and swipes up the phone.

His chest is tightening, he has to lean on a counter for support.

He lets it ring out once more before answering. “Hello?”

“Hey Baby.”

Hearing _his_ voice again is like a sledgehammer to the gut, Juice wants to curl up and hide somewhere. The urge is _strong_.

“You settled in okay?” The tone of his voice is far to nonchalant for Juice’s liking, as if nothing about this is _weird_ at all.

It enrages Juice. “Where the _fuck_ am I, Ron?!”

When did Juice start using Tully’s first name? He can’t pinpoint an exact moment in the confusing, painful madness when it first happened.

It just is.

They have their own names for each other now.

“Nevada.”

Juice is shocked, then he’s even angrier than before. “ _Shit_ , seriously?!”

Tully is as flat as ever. “Deadly serious. I hope the ride wasn’t too bumpy for you.”

Juice wishes he could send an electrical pulse down the line, to make Tully actually _react_ like a normal person; but he may as well try to lick his way through an iceberg.

“Oh it was great, you know your friends are some swell guys.” The sarcasm works as a shell, it protects Juice from his fear, from the uncertainty of all of this. “I can’t… you had me _kidnapped?_ That’s your idea of helping?”

There’s a beat before Tully answers. “Only way I could make you safe, sweetheart.” Another, longer beat passes them by. “Do you believe in fate?”

Juice isn’t ready for the question, he can’t formulate a satisfying answer so he just says what first comes to mind. “…..No.”

“Shame, because we are fated, baby. We were meant to meet, you and I. Call it destiny, or whatever, but I couldn’t let you go.”

Tully is not making any _sense_ , he sounds like bad song lyrics written by an angst-y teenager in his first rock band set up in his mom’s garage.

He’s usually so measured, articulate, saying the most with the least amount of words. What is he talking about?

“ _What?_ Are you… are you high or something, Ron?” He must be, there’s no other explanation.

“Nah, sweetheart. I know I’m not explaining it very well, but I promise it’ll become clear. Anyway-“

He stirs the conversation skilfully, leaving Juice to keep up as best he can.

“How do you like your new digs?”

Juice blinks. He can’t be serious. “…..I’m in a trailer. A fucking trailer.”

A disgusting trailer that Juice is certain was used to cook crystal meth.

Tully lets out an amused huff. “Sorry baby, but good real estate is hard to come by in that neck of the woods.”

What woods are these? There are no trees here, only dust and rocks.

“I heard you scratched up Benny’s face.”

\----

_“Aw, did the kitten scratch you?”_

\----

 _Benny?_ That was skinny guy’s name? Fucking _Benny?_

“And kicked Cole in the balls.” Tully adds. "Busted up his nose, too."

Juice is glad he caused those assholes a bit of pain; glad it’s not only on him like it usually is.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he registers that his views on his own suffering and where he should put it is shifting, and perhaps not for the better.

“I guess I did.” He replies, shrugging it off.

“You got some fire in you, sweetheart, that’s real good, I was worried it might have been extinguished.”

He’s glad he hasn’t broken Juice completely. Nobody likes a broken toy.

“Yeah.” Juice feels hot and strange, his throat drying up.

“Well, good for you, baby. Benny could never keep his hands to himself.” Juice can imagine what Tully is doing now, leaning back against the wall like he owns the whole world. “Maybe I ought to have them cut off.”

Tully’s protective instincts have always made Juice deeply uneasy, because it’s not about caring for him; it’s just another way enforce his control by letting others know who the man belongs to.

“I’m fine.” He asserts, trying to convince himself and Tully he didn’t feel violated in any way.

Benny was a picnic in the park compared to the man he’s talking to now.

But still.

“Because you stopped him.” Tully’s voice is thick with pride and he purrs down the phone and nestles into Juice’s ear. “I think you’re gonna be just _fine_ , baby.”

Well, it’s good to know he’s got _that_ vote of confidence.

“…Why am I in Nevada?” the million dollar question.

Juice hasn’t seen much of the States as a whole, his childhood in Queens is a whole ugly can of worms that he’s keeping good and shut, and his travels before the Club were restricted to where ever the next foster family lived.

“Only place I could make ready on short notice, baby. No one knows where you are, your old MC can’t touch you… or any of our yellow friends.” Tully expects this to be comforting, it only makes Juice feel more isolated.

Doesn’t Tully know he’s not good on his own?

He sighs. “That’s… cool I guess.”

“Hm, do something for me, baby?”

“Sure.”

“Go to the kitchen drawer closest to the fridge, inside there should be an envelope.”

Juice follows the instructions, and sure enough he finds a white envelope among a few odd bits and pieces. He’ll organise the drawer later. “Got it.”

“Good. That’s got some instructions inside for you, and the names of people you can call if you need something.”

Juice inspects the thing in his hand, turning it upside down with care, as if it might blow up in his face if dropped. “Great…”

Tully isn’t finished. “Got someone coming down to bring you some things, hopefully he’ll be there before noon.”

More sitting around, more waiting on Tully’s minions.

“…thanks.”

“Hey baby?”

Juice is getting tired of this. “Yes?”

“I miss you.”

Again, Juice is knocked for a loop.

Don’t fall for it.

Don’t let him get into your head.

“Y-You do?”

“Of course, sweetheart, I miss looking at your pretty face.”

Tig made it his goal to make Juice suffer for being the young and, well, ‘pretty’ one. Jax was also not a bad looking guy, but he had the confidence to put anyone who so much as whistled at him in their place.

One way or another, the club made it clear they weren’t above dangling Juice over some horny fucker for their own gain.

\----

_“We need you to take one for the club.”_

\----

Juice is starting to think he took one too many.

He is tongue tied for a good minute, and when he does finally open his mouth he hears something behind him.

Like fingernails on wood.

He turns around, and sitting there are two rather large dogs.

An identical matching pair, with coarse russet brown fur and long black faces, at the tip of their muzzles are noses so dark and shiny they look almost blue. Their ears are pricked and at attention, as if they’ve been listening to Juice’s conversation the entire time.

They’re eyes are small and almond shaped, intelligent, watchful.

Juice had forgotten he’d left the door open.

“Erm…I need to… go. Things to do.” Juice stammers, his fight or flight responses kicking into gear.

One dog licks its lips and Juice almost croaks at the quick flash of sharp teeth. 

“Alright, take care Baby. We’ll speak again soon.” Tully coos, oblivious to the danger Juice is in.

Juice hangs up and slowly, very slowly in fact, puts the phone down and staring down at his two guests.

He lets out a high, nervous laugh. “Oh… you two look fun.”


	6. Autumn Tree

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: The following chapter contains a suicide attempt and suicidal thoughts
> 
> Wow long chapter is long O.O 
> 
> Thank you for your continued love guys! And I can reveal that Tully's dogs are both Belgian Malinois. 
> 
> Time for a new game! One thousand internet monies to whoever can guess what Juice's new nickname is going to be!

Juice and the dogs stare at each other for what is an uncountable amount of time.

Each waiting for the other to move first; not willing to give the other the upper hand.

Juice has never really dealt with dogs before (he doesn’t count the Doberman incident) he’s always been more inclined towards cats; with their slower, more predictable movements, soft fur, and being less likely to slobber all over him.

He really doesn’t know how he’d handle dog drool.

One of the hellhound twins lets out a keening whine, tilting its head to one side in expectation.

“What?” Juice asks, as if the dog could articulate in English what it’s seeking. “I don’t know what you want, dude.”

Then, Juice has himself a light bulb moment; he opens up the letter.

The note has been hand written as opposed to typed.

But reflecting on what he knows about Tully, that didn’t seem terribly strange.

\----

_“I’m an old guy, baby, most I can do is type if I have to and google search. Usually leave the rest of it to someone more able.”_

\----

Juice tries to read, but his eyes are half pinned to the dogs; just in case they got bored of waiting and decide to have him for breakfast.

The handwriting is very _delicate_ , a soft, curling scrawl that would be better suited to a Jane Austin novel, not a Neo-Nazi shot caller sitting in prison. He’s a true tangle of contradictions that continues to surprise him.

Disorientate him.

Tully must have written this when Juice was still inside, and sent it here ahead of time; he’s meticulous, organised, always one step ahead.

It certainly makes one feel rather powerless in his wake; like a ball rolling down a predetermined marble run, the path has already been designed.

Tully likes to go on a bit with his prose, and Juice feels nauseous at every ‘baby’ and ‘sweetheart’ that’s dropped in there like awful seeds of deception.

But, Juice is able to pluck out the most important parts; his systematic brain analysing and breaking down the information like the finely tuned machine it is.

Once, his mind was an asset, rather than the self-hating, erratic nest of vipers it has become.

From what he understands, the property he’s on extends for 3 aches, but the land is dried up and not worth much; but it’s out of the way, and no one comes knocking unless they’re up to no good.

The kind of no good that keeps Tully and the AB in guard-bribing money.

\----

_“Money speaks to men better than any other language, baby.”_

\----

There’s a barn, somewhere, and animals that need tending too.  

But that seems to be taken care of by someone called ‘Harry’, whoever he might be.

Juice isn’t thrilled to be meeting more of Tully’s ‘friends’.

The last paragraph is devoted to the dogs ( _Finally_ , Juice thinks), and Tully seems to hold them in very high regard; going into detail about feeding schedules, exercise, grooming.

Cynically, Juice thinks that Tully may have slipped his foot soldiers a care manual on how to look after _him_.

‘Feed him twice a day, take him out for regular walks, and he likes having his belly rubbed.’

Juice has had one pet in his entire life, a goldfish which was won at the fair for him by one of his mother’s indistinct boyfriends; must have been one of the nicer ones though.

The fish had died two days after he brought it home.

When he gets to what the dogs are called he almost loses it.

They’re named _Sugar_ and _Spice_ respectively.

“What the actual fuck, Ron.” Juice says aloud, breaking out into a confused smile; his cheeks hurt a little from the effort it takes, he hasn’t smiled in what feels like years.

He glances back to the pair of mutts, who do not look like there’s anything remotely sweet about them.

“Er…Sugar?”

The dog on the left gives a soft woof.

“Spice?”

Dog on the right lets its pink tongue loll from its mouth, and the brush like tail twitches.

“Okay. Well I’m-”

He pauses, not because formally introducing himself to dogs is idiotic (he’s aware how insane that is) but because he can’t force his own name past his lips.

It chokes him, like that chain he’d used to try and bring his tragic play on earth to an end.

He literally _cannot_ say it, it won’t come.

What’s the matter with him?

“I’m… nobody important.” He finally manages, his shoulders falling in defeat. “I guess you want some chow or something, huh?”

He looks in the cupboards and finds two dog bowls, plus some premium dry food with measuring cups inside the bag. Juice follows Tully’s measurements when dealing out the portions, why mess with a system that already works, right?

The dogs wait for the bowls to be put down, and Juice admits to himself he’s a bit of a sissy for jumping out of the way when they get to munching; but he likes having all ten fingers.

A quick check underneath confirms what Juice already suspected, both dogs are girls   

                         

“I always did like bitches.” Juice jokes to the air. “And now I’m talking to myself, Jesus Christ.”

\----

“Well now, you’re a lot prettier than most of my visitors.”

Jarry expects Tully to be creepy, but there’s something just so undeniably _off_ with the man that she feels it the minute they are alone together. He’s serene, calm, looking at her dead in the eye as if she is nothing but a fly that has landed on his windscreen; this is his kingdom, and she is nothing.

She sits opposite him, the room is silent as a forgotten gravestone.

His dyed hair is a little absurd, as if he’s stepped out of a Goth band from the eighties. Tully is slightly heavier than she thought he would be; getting to that podgy stage of middle age, but she wouldn’t want to tussle with him.

Tully seems like the type of guy that would fight dirty.

“Ron Tully.”

“That’ll be me.” His eyes make an assessment of her, flickering up and down. “Nice uniform, sexy.”

“Funny, from what I hear, I’m not exactly your type.” Jarry smirks, she can do this too.

Tully scratches his elbow, his thick outer coating of nonchalance remains untouched. “Can I help you with something, doll?”

“Sure can. Tell me about Juice Ortiz.”

Tully sluggishly leans back, his boredom coming off in waves. “What about him? He got parole over a week ago.”

“Don’t try to play with me, Tully.” She’s already infuriated by him. “I know you and Juice were… close.”

That’s his game.

To ignite her anger with vague answers so she loses control; two minutes in the same room and he’s already sniffed out her weaknesses. He needs no bullets, no fists, and no knives.

If Juice has survived thirteen months of this and come out with any sanity left, it’ll be a special kind of miracle.

“Close?” Tully looks at her as if she’s said something rather stupid. “Me and that half black little Puerto Rican? I think your wires might be crossed, doll.”

“Call me that again, and I’ll have you tossed into solitary.” Threatening him is a pointless waste of breath, she can’t touch him, and he’s already in here for a twenty year stretch.

There’s nothing she can do to truly make him suffer, and he knows that. But he’s enjoying watching her try.

Tully tilts his chin upward. “Go ahead, give me some time to study the bible.”

Jarry moves on, she didn’t come to spar with a rapist, she came to help Juice.

“Ortiz was kidnapped by men in white masks off Highway 1, snatched from a bus taking him and twelve other people to San Francisco.” Jarry lets the info digest, though she suspects he already knows all. “Know anything about that?”

Tully purses his lips. “Can’t say that I do.”

Jarry crosses her arms. “Really?”

“Nope. Sorry.” Tully folds his hands on the table, Jarry spies his tattoos peeking out from his of his long sleeves like the insidious heads of snakes; a swastika, profane in its existence, making Jarry recoil in distaste.

“But I have to say…” He says, arranging his face into an expression of concern and confusion; as if he’s puzzling a disturbing fact he can’t quite come to terms with. “What kinda person would harm a pretty little thing like that?”

\----

_“Trust me, all I am in here is someone’s asshole.”_

\----

Jarry is done.

“You’d have to be one depraved individual, I’d say.”

Tully is a maze, a labyrinth, an endless series of dark echo-y corridors and she’s not going to be drawn in any further.

Coming here was a mistake, she’s going to have to do this on her own.

She rises, and takes a moment to feel some power return in the fact that she can get up and leave this place. He can’t.

“Well, thanks for this.”

 “Come again, Doll. I’ll be here.”

\----

The bedroom is the only truly private area in the trailer, with the dogs on watch Juice takes a risk and decides to have a shower; his first shower alone in months.

The room has a few bookshelves heavy with novels, and some poetry.

He runs his fingers along the spines and picks something at random, landing on a worn copy of ‘Heart of Darkness’ by Joseph Conrad; he reckons he’s going to have a lot of spare time, so there’s no hurry to read it right away.

Juice tosses it on the bed and proceeds to strip.

Being naked without a prying pair of eyes is a welcome change, but Juice knows that at least part of him has been left behind with Tully; a remnant that he isn’t going to get back.

The pipes gargle, but nothing comes out; Juice has to tap the shower head a few times before freezing cold ice water pours onto his face like a cruel avalanche.

“ARGH Holy sh-shit!” Juice blindly fumbles for the knob to control the temperature and turns it frantically with his now icy fingers. Then he gets a blast of boiling water instead.

Juice shrieks.

Abandoning the whole project Juice scrambles from the shower, leaving it running and the steam rising in great billows; clouding the mirror with a layer of condensation. Can he not even _wash_ himself without some disaster happening?

Just like that, he starts to cry.

A tide begins with a single drop.

Great, heaving sobs escape from a place inside Juice that is so full of all the horrible things that it just bursts and floods out into the world. He collapses in a heap, soaking wet, both hot and cold, onto the floor.

His nose runs, his eyes leak and he sounds like a poor animal howling in despair, so great is his anguish.

The thoughts tell him he’s pathetic, that he’s better off dead, but he’s clearly too much of a failure to even do the job right.

\---

_“If I were you, I’d get that gun, put it in my mouth, and pull the trigger_

\---

Then, he feels the first lick of a warm tongue, and the smell of dog breath.

Sugar and Spice stick their noses into Juice’s face and lap up the salty tears from his cheeks.

Juice lets them do it, limp and unable to respond.

They keep it up, and eventually he’s forced to move and sit on the bed; and buries his head in his hands.

Thinking about dressing in those donated prison clothes, of staying here in this metal death trap in the middle of the desert in fucking _Nevada_ becomes too awful to stomach.

So Juice goes to work.

He dresses, mind blank, he can only think of his task. He shuts the door behind him to keep the dogs in the bedroom; they don’t need to watch, they wouldn’t understand.

Juice searches the kitchen, looking for an appropriate tool. The drawers are pretty sparse, no string, no painkillers, but he does find a knife.

He tests the edge, slightly blunt, but it’ll do.  

The mental image of the mess is off-putting, so he decides to do it over the sink, let it drain away.

Right wrist first, if he’s quick, he can do both before he passes out.

He pulls up the cuff of his plaid shirt, and rests the knife against what he thinks is the main artery in his wrist; Tara would know this, he misses her. The blade is chilled, settling there with the sweet promise of a release, all Juice has to do is commit.

“Hey there.”

Juice’s hand falters, the knife slips, falling harmlessly into the sink; Juice stares at it, devastated.

Juice looks, and nearly falls backward; for a brief, terrifying second, he thought it was Tully standing there. The voice didn’t help, same sort of accent, neutral and a bit indistinct, but not as deep.

The guy has the same shape as Tully, large build, but is easily several decades younger than the old Neo-Nazi; not quite as pallid either.

Juice could be looking at Tully in his early twenties, such is the resemblance.

His hair is lighter, a natural dark brown and the fringe falls down over his face like a curtain; it makes him stand out, Juice has gotten used to being surrounded by skinheads.

The guy is bracing himself with a hand on a wall, the thumb of his other resting in his belt; he’s observing Juice with a mixture of indifference and irritation. He’s got the put upon look of a teenage baby sitter.

He’s got on some clothes which suggest he gets his hands dirty on a regular basis, faded jeans, boots, white tank top and an open red button down with frayed sleeves.

“Shall we make each other’s acquaintance?”

He approaches at a saunter and offers a hand, the muscles of his arms rippling; he’s a big dude, and Juice retreats away from him so he isn’t crowded.

“I’m Harry.” Oh. Harry-from-the-note.

                          

                                 

                           

Juice doesn’t take his hand, he’s too busy frantically trying to process what exactly is going on. “I…I-” He stammers. “How did you get in here?”

Harry lets his hand drop. “I teleported.”

Juice doesn’t laugh, just mutely watches as the big dude takes a seat at his kitchen table, crossing his ankles as if he owns the trailer and Juice is the intruder. “The door was unlocked, genius.”

Juice makes a mental note to make sure he closes that damn door in future. “Uh-huh… what are you doing here?”

“I’m here to talk to you about Jesus.” Harry replies, dry as the air outside, before looking Juice up and down that is just so _Tully_ it makes his insides squirm.

This has _got_ to be Tully’s kid; unless Juice is missing the man to such a degree he’s seeing Tully in the face of strangers.

“By the looks of things, you need a bit of his love in your life.”

The guy never mentioned a family outside of prison, though Juice and he didn’t exactly spend their time together exchanging chit-chat.

He never, ever thought Tully would be a white picket fence, suburban house with a wife and two kids and a dog kind of guy.

When Tully _did_ want to talk, it was about philosophy, literature, musings about man and his place in the unfolding narrative of life.

Juice was left feeling tiny and uneducated. Ignorant.

\----

_“You’re not dumb, baby, far from it. But the numbers don’t lie, Hispanic youth have one of the highest dropout rates in this country.”_

_“Because we’re having babies at sixteen and selling drugs to each other, right?”_

_“Don’t get snippy, I know the truth is hard to swallow.”_

\----

‘Harry’ isn’t really a kid, he’s closer to Juice’s age really; twenty five, twenty six at a push.

When Juice doesn’t so much as snicker at his wit, he lets out a groan. “Give me strength. Look over there.” He points to some cardboard boxes on the table. “Package, from the man himself.”

Juice goes over to inspect the contents. In the first one is food, mostly dry goods, but there’s some milk as well. He’s itching to sort, to categorise, to put everything in order.

In the second is a toothbrush, toothpaste, and some more clothes. These get Juice’s attention, and he takes out a neatly folded shirt to inspect it; a burgundy check short sleeved number, a little lumberjack for his tastes but Juice is not in a position to be picky.

“…oh, thanks.”

“No problem, _hombre_.” The last word and the way he says it makes Juice grind his teeth.

“Where are the dogs?” Harry asks.

“Er… bedroom.”

Harry opens the door, and greets the pair of dogs with a few ruffles to their pointed ears. “Hey girls.”

Harry stands up and turns to Juice. “You fed them?”

Juice nods.

“Good. I take care of the other stuff around here, so don’t touch _anything_ without asking me first. Got it?” With a swift move of his hand he swipes an errand bang away from his forehead, honestly he could do with a haircut.

He may as well be pissing at Juice’s feet, claiming everything as his own. “Alright, I’ll be up at the barn if you need something. By the pond.”

Juice just wants him gone. “Cool.”

“And-” Harry sidles into his personal bubble like a creeping vine, using the threat of his bulk to force Juice to move backwards into a less than ideal position; trapped by the fridge and the counters, he’d have to push past the guy to get free.

“If I catch you trying to off yourself again… I will make _sure_ you meet your maker, but not before I drag it out as long as I can.”

The softness of his tones are on the same octave as a rattlesnake’s tail; quiet, but menacing.

“I get you, you sad sack, you don’t want to be here, but neither do I.” There’s a bit more of a snarl in his voice now. “Playing minder to a bit of Latino prison tail is well beneath my paygrade.”  

Juice reaches his limit for the day, despite the danger he decides he’s tired of being treated like shit. From behind him, he takes hold of the knife and brandishes it at Harry’s chest. “Get the fuck out of my face, _Hombre_ , before I cut you a Glasgow smile.”

An homage to Chibs? Possibly.

Harry looks down in bewilderment at the weapon.

“Don’t know what that is? I can give you a demonstration.”

Juice keeps it there, uses what reserves of courage he has to let the man know he’s serious. It would be deeply cathartic to cut up this Tully look-a-like.

“You’re a treasure, aren’t you?” Harry drawls, smiling down at the knife as if it’s a child’s toy. “A real _jewel_.” Finally, he backs off, and takes his leave.

“Adios.” He calls.

Juice shudders as the door is once again slammed shut, the dogs whine at his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet Harry everyone! XD I swear he's going to be important, I'm just bad at setting up new characters. Also Juice cutting a bitch is my new favourite thing


	7. I shall smile

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew. One more down.
> 
> Juice/Not taking shit from anyone should be a new pairing XD

Jarry has not had a moment of privacy all day, only when some of her colleagues go out to lunch does she finally have the opportunity to make the call.

Chibs answers it on the first ring, which, despite knowing better makes Jarry just a little bit jealous. He’s eager to hear news of Ortiz, would he have picked up the phone so quickly just for _her?_

She pushes that feeling down into the depths when she hears his voice on the line.

“Hey darlin’”

His accent always reminds her of Braveheart, which no doubt would infuriate Chibs if she told him so. He cannot stand that movie.

Her desk is in upheaval, files and papers lay scattered before her in a disorganised heap which reflects perfectly the state of the case. She has lots of ends, but no connections; the AB cover their tracks well.

“I would have called sooner, but today has been crazy.” She says.

“No worries, have you got anything for me?”

Jarry’s mouth thins to a grim line. “Yes, I had the pleasure of meeting Ron Tully yesterday.”

“Jesus.” Chibs replies. “How was that?”

“He’s a piece of work, Phillip.” Jarry had come away from Stockon feeling the need to shower, to cleanse herself of that visit; the last thing she needed was any oily deposits of Ron Tully getting stuck in her pores. “He denied everything.”

“Even the rape?”

It’s a heavy word, and Chibs sounds as if he’s weighted down by it; Jarry is too, and there are nights when sleep does not come easily.

\----

_“What kinda person would harm a pretty little thing like that?”_

\----

“I don’t think he views it as rape. He and Jax had a… arrangement after all, and Juice…” She hesitates, trying to find a way to describe the sordid situation that does not lay the blame at Juice’s feet. “I wouldn’t say he consented exactly, but he had no other choice.”

There were walls, and bars, and guards; he couldn’t escape, he couldn’t say no.

“No one consents to that.” She can feel his fury radiating down the phone, also his frustration at being unable to act like a true Son of Anarchy; to go in guns blazing and put Tully in an unmarked grave. He’s still got some rebel in him, despite going straight.

“Any clue where they’ve taken him? If they _do_ have him?” He presses.

Jarry huffs. “I’m sure they do. Tully didn’t say so, but he was just so _smug_. He knows, but he isn’t telling.”

He was like a kid with a secret, filled to bursting with some special knowledge that only he possessed; but also like a kid, he was dying to tell someone how clever he’d been, so hid it poorly.

He was dying to brag about it.

“Of course, why incriminate himself?”

“Yeah. I’ve got a description of the van but it’s pretty generic, and the few time they were spotted on camera are sketchy at best.” Jarry explains, retelling the facts out loud help her bring them into some sort of coherent alignment. “I think wherever they took Juice is off the beaten track, where no one would go looking.”

Tully was relying on Juice being all alone in the world, with no one to miss him, no one to come looking.

“You’ll find him.” Chibs assures her. Jarry wasn’t sure if this was an encouragement, or a self-reassuring mantra. “And when you do, I want the first round with the bastards that took him. Alone.”

Jarry understood perfectly well, but muscle and unmitigated rage was not what she needed right now. “Don’t worry about, I’m not going to let Tully beat me.”

\----

Chibs hangs up, and lets his arm dangle by his side, the phone held only by the tips of his fingers. He had hoped for more progress, more witnesses, something to suggest the trail wasn’t going to go cold before it had even begun.

He stares outward, his gaze falling upon some old photos on the wall of his office; quite by happenstance. They’re more recent ones, taken a few months ago, since the fire decimated a great deal of their memories.

However, Chibs managed to save one. It was a group photo, a quick snap at Opie’s thirtieth birthday party; whoever took it must have been wasted, because the framing is off, tilting to one side.

It’s full of dead men. Jax, grinning like a fox, Opie, broad and strong and eyeing the camera with his laid back attitude, Piney, Clay...

And who’s that, peeking from the corner of the photo? It’s Juice.

 Immediately recognisable with that awful haircut and tattoos, his irises are blown, his face happy and young; if Chibs could sit and cry over anything, it would be how unknowing they were back then.

\----

_“I love you, brother.”_

\----

“Hey there, Honey.”

Venus has all access privileges, and she does like to make sure Chibs hasn’t dozed off in his chair again; despite that only happening the once when he hadn’t slept for two days.

He gives her a distracted nod. “Venus.”

“I brought you some coffee, working man has to keep himself caffeinated.” She places the cup on his desk, he doesn’t even look at it.

“Thank you.”

Not one to be dismissed so easily, she places her hands on her hips and quirks her mouth into a motherly smile. “That’s a lot of thinking you’re doing there, my Scottish shortbread.”

Chibs snorts, it’s a _ridiculous_ nickname, but one that he’s oddly grown fond off. He teased Tig mercilessly for his own little moniker ‘Tiger’ gifted by the woman standing before him.

She’s got a leopard print, form fitting dress on, and she appears downright savage in her beauty; but deep down lies a fourteen caret heart.

Venus pokes him in the forehead; she’s a touchy gal. “You’ll get wrinkles, well, more to add to the collection.”

Chibs lets her paw him, his mind churning away, thinking of the ‘what ifs’ and the ‘I should haves’ that become bitter in his mouth like cyanide. “Have you ever…” he begins.

“What, shortbread?”

“What if you’d done something because you honest to god believed it was the right thing to do-” Chibs sounds like a mad old man, but the words just spill out like vomit. “But then you realise you’ve made a horrible mistake.”

\----

_“Once you’re patched, the members are your family. This charter is your home.”_

\----

Venus lets out a sad little laugh. “You don’t need to tell Venus about that, baby, I used to hold on to my regrets like parking tickets. Now I let them go, only way to move forward.”

It’s good wisdom.

“I can’t let this one go, Venus.” Chibs feels his age, his mistakes clinging onto his back like tiny demons; digging their long claws into his flesh.

“Well now.” She clicks her tongue, and formulates a game plan. “I guess we’ll be needing some doughnuts as well. They’re good for tragedy.”

\----

Juice stares at the message with apathy.

‘PRISEN BITCHEZ GET STICHEZ” has been written across the back of the trailer for all to see, like some kind of obnoxious billboard. The spelling indicates a person of limited intelligence, or perhaps they were too ignited by anger to consider the importance of proper grammar.

The pun isn’t even funny.

The lettering is jagged, and the black paint has dribbled downward, but now has hardened to a glossy finish.

Sugar has joined Juice outside, she’s a little more clingy than her twin; he suspects that she’s the younger of the two, more people orientated.

He scowls at her. “Where were you when this was happening?”

She gives him the dog equivalent of a shrug.

He’s beginning to think that the dogs aren’t very good at their job. Whoever the mysterious artist was must have snuck around when Juice managed to snatch that precious two hours of sleep from midnight to 2.AM.

Looks like there’s another reason for him to stay awake; random acts of vandalism.

Was it Mitch?

This seems a little childish for him; big bad AB gangster must have better things to do, strangling prostitutes, for example. It _could_ have been Harry, he seemed royally pissed off at Juice for just existing (a sentiment shared by Juice himself) and has the run of the property, plus possible access to paint.

Back to the task at hand, Juice has no idea how he’s going to deal with this shit. He’s not exactly a ‘handy man’ when it comes to DIY. He can’t work with mortar, or wood; all the bird houses he tried to make in prison always ended up looking like crap.

\----

_“Why the fuck are we making bird houses? They are no birds around here.”_

_“Busy hands and vacant minds, baby. They gotta do something to stop the cons ripping each other’s throats out.”_

\----

What a waste of tax payer’s money.

Engines are a different matter, they spoke to him, and he wanted to listen; to make them better, to fix them.

Juice has nothing to rid the trailer of the insult, but he assumes that Harry keeps some tools hidden around the place somewhere; something to scrape the paint off, so he goes looking.

It’s hard to leave his new ‘home’ behind at first, Juice cannot help but feel he’s wondering blindly into an unseen danger; but he pushes on, with Sugar and his side to keep him steady.

Its lunch time, so the sun is at its highest and despite it being only March its already reaching what could be considered summer time temperatures. Juice isn’t bothered too much by it, he’s used to Californian heat; but he admits that a dip in a pool would be rather nice right about now.

When was the last time he went swimming? Months ago, he has never liked public baths, they set off his OCD like crazy; the smell, the crowds, the possibility of catching something.

The land truly is barren, like an old western, nothing but low growing dried out grasses plus a few spikey shrubs that Juice stays clear of. He half expects to see a tumble weed rolling by.

But, in the distance, he can make out the weathered wooden body of the barn.

The middle of the roof peaks like a hill, with two slanting sides, and said roof appears to have been haphazardly patched up with erogenous pieces of whatever metal was lying around. The wood is rotting, a dull, aged brown which tells Juice it could be as old as he is; the walls must be close friends with gravity to not be falling down right now.

As he draws nearer, he notices a few vehicles parked up.

A very well maintained 1975 Ford pickup draws the eye, a bottle green colour that shines like a patch of clover among weeds. It’s clearly someone’s pride and joy, judging from the way it’s been cared for; the rims shine, the tires are new, and not a single scratch or speck of dirt tarnishes the body.

Juice has never been a truck kind of guy, but he can appreciate the beauty of a well-loved machine such as this.

Lying in the dust a few metres away is a dirt bike, owned by a much more careless owner; it has been abandoned more than parked, lying on its side where the rider has jumped off and gone elsewhere.

Finally, there is an actual motorcycle, and Juice isn’t sure what he feels; he misses his Dyna like a lover lost in war, and the smallest thing reminds him of what he’s lost. She was his girl, the only girl that stayed loyal.

Thankfully this bike is totally different from Juice’s, it’s a Japanese model; ironic considering he’s in the heart of the AB motherland. Its slick and small, a Honda Hawk with a very nice red coat, a naked bike; a versatile, general-purpose street motorcycle. It’s got a ‘baby’s first bike’ feel to it.

As much as Juice would like to admire the vehicles some more, he came here for a reason. From inside the barn drifts out some chatter, guy talk by the sounds of it, and Juice tries to identify how many there are in there.

Four, maybe five. He’s very much outnumbered.

\----

_“Walk with confidence, baby, even if you don’t really believe it. Then no one will mess with you.”_

\----

Sugar solves the dilemma for him by trotting merrily into the barn, and Juice is compelled to follow her.

The inside is vast and cavernous, like the great belly of a whale, the ceiling held up by unsure wooden beams which probably wouldn’t pass any health and safety tests. Iron tools of various kinds hang on the walls from nails, and farm equipment accumulating rust in the shadows. The smell is rather musty.

As Juice suspected, there are four men in the barn, well, ‘men’ wouldn’t be accurate. The oldest guy here has to be no more than 23 years old, and the youngest is a teenager. They’re all inked, with various designs and patterns, but Juice can’t tell from the doorway if they’ve got any AB markers on them.

The first four are sitting around a wood palette, playing some kind of card game; two are sitting on hay bales, and the other two on half of a barrel and some bags of compost.

“Fucking goddam son of a black whore-” Curses a young man with hair that spikes like a hedgehog, so blonde it’s almost transparent. “You’re fucking _cheating_ , Blue. No one is this lucky.”

“Naw mate, you’re just bad at poker.” Says Blue, whose accent throws Juice a bit, Australian, he thinks. “Plus you’re a fucking retard.”

The younger ones snicker; one is dark haired with the classic neo buzz cut, his friend has a long weasel-like nose.

“Go suck kangaroo dick.” Snaps Spikey hair.

Sugar chooses this moment to let out a soft yip, and four heads look up in unison.

They’re gazes turn icy cold upon Juice.

“Look, boys, we’re being invaded by little brown men.” Blue rises, leaving his cards where they are.

“….Hi.” He says, unable to think what else to do. “Don’t mind me, just… looking for…something.”

“Would that something be trouble, _Spic?_ ” Sneers Spikey Hair, also getting up.

Juice wills himself not to back up, not to give in to his instincts to run.

Meanwhile, Sugar goes and sits by the youngest boy’s leg, who gives her a pat.

Its then that Harry makes an appearance, and Juice is pleased to see him for the very first time. He morphs out of the back of the barn with a sack thrown over his shoulder; his coffee ground hair is slick with sweat. “Put your dicks away, that’s Tully’s jewel, you know the score.”

“Him?” Exclaims Spikey hair. “That’s what everyone is so fucking twisted up about?” He gives Juice an unimpressed once over before sitting back down. “Don’t look like much to me.”

“Not much at all.” Weasel nose stalks over and gets all up in Juice’s face; which is pretty comical, considering he’s about half a head shorter and not even eighteen. It’s like being accosted by a Chihuahua.  “What he call you, Spic? Jules? What kinda fairy name is that?”

Juice opens his mouth to correct him, but the kid is not finished. “I hope you like my sign, that’s what you get for scratching up my dad’s face.”

His eyes widen in realisation. “That was _you?_ ”

Weasel nose is enjoying himself very much. “You bet, and I swear to god if you gave my dad aids or something I’m gonna cut your dick off.”

“How old are you?” Juice asks, not moving.

“Seventeen.”

He blinks down at the tiny dictator. “…kid, I’ve got socks older than you.”

That earns him a quiet titter of laughter from the group, all except Harry, who’s impassively looking on; he looks _particularly_ like the old Neo-Nazi today, and it makes a lump rise to Juice’s throat.

“You wanna swing from a tree, spic?” The teen hisses.

Oh how Juice wishes he had, wishes that the branch had not snapped and he wasn’t standing here right now. His heart begins to drum a war song, the world blurs around the edges and his breathing becomes so loud it fills his ears.

He can feel himself sway, his mind leaving his body for a quick vacation.

The kid says something else, something mocking, and something hateful.

The punch lands squarely in the centre of his face. There is a crack. Juice does not feel the impact, his hand is strangely numb; as if he’s running on some kind of high.

With a pain filled squeal the kid falls to the floor, clutching at his nose which is now pouring blood out onto his fingers.

It’s then Juice returns to himself, and takes account of what he’s done.

Holy _shit_.

There’s movement among the young men, then out of nowhere comes a ruckus; laughter.

“Oh my god-” Spikey Hair’s words are punctuated by childlike giggles. “Oh my god Dill you fucking dumbass, oh please tell me his nose is broken-”

“Fuck you, asshole!” Dill shouts, but it’s a wobbly call wet with tears.

Juice feels shame wash over him, he’s hit a _child_. He immediately offers a hand out to help Dill up. “Look man, I’m sorry-”

“I’ll kill you!” Dill hollers, eyes bright with hatred.

Harry sidles over and plucks him from the ground as if he weighs nothing. “Shoo, mosquito. Go get your mommy to clean up your face.”

With no support, Dill withers like a flower in the sun and rushes out.

Harry gives Juice a look which may or may not be significant, before picking up his sack once more and heading through the door at an easy stroll. Obviously nothing phases him.

“That was a pretty ace punch, brown boy.” Blue calls, nodding in approval. “Little shit didn’t know what hit him.”

Juice is extremely confused, it was also ironic that this twenty-something year old was calling him ‘boy’. “I just broke your friend’s nose.”

“He ain’t our friend.” Says dark buzz cut. “But his Pop runs the blow pipeline around here which makes him the fucking prince. So we gotta be _nice_ to him.”

Spikey hair has finally gotten a hold of himself. “Yeah. Hey, you play Poke, Jules? No much point just the two of us, and this one can’t pay attention long enough to figure out the rules.”

“Cards are boring, Raz.” Replies dark buzz cut.

 Juice approaches with caution, unsure if this is some kind of trap. “Yeah… I play.”

“Sit your brown arse down, then.” Blue gestures to the half barrel Dill was occupying.

Taking a risk, Juice sat and picked up the cards on the pallet before him; Four of a kind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meet the gang. I'm sorry for overloading you with OCS guys, but they're gonna be big parts of Juice's character development, there will be more from SAMCRO in the next chapter I promise.


	8. Wreaths of snow

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New chapter everybody!

Chibs rides north.

Its a long, cold journey, the rain is coming down in stir rods. The droplets fall across his face like bullets, and the tires grip poorly in these conditions; if he's not careful, he's going to meeting Jax Teller sooner than he planned.

The club think he's going to visit Wendy and the boys; he called her in advance to ask her to cover for him. She had agreed, but was bewildered and somewhat annoyed by the request.

"What is it now? I don't want to get involved in anything sketchy."

"Nah, darlin, just don't want to tell the boys I'm having a colonoscopy."

Chibs can tell she's wrinkling her nose in disgust. "Nice."

He did enquire after the lads and Nero, who are all thriving; finally, some good news.

Connor Piers was taken to Mercy General Hospital with non fatal gunshot wounds, currently recovery after surgeons successfully removed a 9×18mm Ultra from his chest; which by dumb luck missed his heart and lungs, passing through his body and getting lodged in the driver's seat of the bus.

Now, a 9X18mm Ultra fits into a Walter PP, which was a semi automatic pistol used by the German police; first manufactured in 1935.

"Who else but someone with a keen interest in Germany around that era would own a weapon like that?" Chibs could see Jarry enlivened by the breakthrough; if they find the man that fired it, they will find the bread crumbs that will lead them to Juice.

Chibs has been having unsettling dreams, mainly of freezing basements, and Juice chained in the dark, naked and starving; held by handcuffs to a water heater. Its just his mind making things up, of course, but Chibs can't help thinking the worst.

This is the Aryan Brotherhood they're dealing with; if they can rape a matriarch like Gemma to prove a point, they're tear Juice to shreds.

Jarry had called in a favour at Mercy, a nurse whose son almost got a caution for being drunk and disorderly owed her one.

Chibs meets her at the front desk, she's stout and impatient. "Are you Phillip Telford?"

"Aye."

"This way."

She takes him down a series of identical corridors, before leaving him at a private room. "Here, don't do anything that'll get me fired."

Chibs goes inside, watching the man on the bed lightly dozing; on his bedside table is a bunch of flowers and a card. Not the cheap kind either.

The Scot picks up the card and reads the message inside, thinking that the handwriting reminds him of the cursive he was forced to practise at school.

_Dear Connor,_

_The family wanted to wish you a speedy recovery, and we hope you enjoy these flowers._

_yours with love,_

_RT_

Its perfectly mundane, no one would think anything of it. 

Neither would have Chibs, if not for the initials. 

"Son of a bitch."

 ----

It takes them two days to scrape the paint off of the trailer. Dill had gone above and beyond, spending his allowance money on enamel, which as it turns out is a real bitch to get rid of. 

He didn’t expect Harry to help, he seemed the type more inclined to sit back and watch Juice struggle.

Instead, the man had appeared (it’s downright eerie how he can move without Juice seeing or hearing him) with an extra scraper in hand and informed Juice his technique was all wrong.

Something about applying his weight in an upward motion, or something.

He wasn’t exactly talkative, but the silence wasn’t tense.

The dogs hang out under one of the many skeleton trucks littering the place, and Juice made sure they had a bowl of water each in case they got thirsty.

During their work, a teen with runner bean limbs came bounding down the dirt road carrying two six packs in his spindly hands, his brow wet with his perspiration.

Immediately Juice’s focus went to the beer, a better gift he could not have been given. Inmates can of course purchase or even make their own booze, but even the hops added to battery acid moonshine peddled around the Stockon yard wouldn’t have given Juice same buzz as Tully’s top quality blow.

“About time, Tonto.” Harry chides. “Put those in the fridge.”

The teen is the darkest skinned person apart from himself that Juice has come across since he’s been deposited here; with almost black eyes and short, tousled hair just as dark. Guessing by his nickname and his appearance, ‘Tonto’ is a Native American of some fashion.

He’s got on a Pepsi logo T-shirt a few sizes too big and some denim shorts, complete with sandals. He looks ready for a trip to the beach.

The few interactions Juice has had with Indians has left him with a mixed bag as far as impressions go; they seemed secretive, distrustful of outsiders in general, but Juice can’t exactly blame them for that, not with centuries of hurt behind them.

He only becomes aware of his own hypocrisy as Tonto turns and walks over to the trailer, his head bowed, walking like a hood rat from his old neighbourhood in Queens. Juice chokes on his own shallow thoughts, seeing in him the boy he used to be.

\----

_“You aint going anywhere fast, boy, don’t get ideas above yourself now.”_

\----

Stepdad number three should have written motivational speeches.

“He doesn’t look like a neo-Nazi, and why are you guys so young?” He says to Harry.

“AB takes them young. You can put in an application at sixteen.”

Scrape, scrape, scrape.

Juice is scratching some primordial itch inside himself with every bit of black enamel that comes away. It’s good to see the smooth surface underneath.

Juice’s head whips around at Harry’s reply. “Jesus, really?”

“Got to indoctrinate them before the synapses have finished growing.” Harry taps his temple with his finger.

That’s a disturbing little nugget of info if there ever was one.

Juice recalls Opie relaying to him what happened when they’d discovered Weston’s kids home alone; a little boy spewing hatred, cultivated by his father like a houseplant in their tiny glass bubble of prejudice and ignorance. 

It still makes Juice sick to think the kid never had a chance to be different.

“Most of the hopefuls are the sons of members, just following in the old man’s footsteps.” Harry goes on, and Juice doesn’t interrupt. He needs to know this world better if he’s going to be forced to live in it.

“Or the brand sets up shop in some pig-shit back water and recruit all the disillusioned little white boys that they can find.” 

“Sounds a bit like my old MC.” Juice confides, his tone sounding bitter and petty in his own ears; since when did he start this angry journey of introspection?

In prison there isn’t much else to do but examine your own thoughts.

And Juice’s thoughts want to kill him.

“MC? I assume that doesn’t stand for Mexican cabaret.” Harry quips.

That gets a laugh from Juice, as he envisions SAMCRO all decked out in skimpy, lacy outfits complete with high heels and maracas. “Nah. Motorcycle club.”

Harry languidly regards him. “Whatever you do, don’t tell Raz. He’s got a giant erection for bikes.”

Juice looks at Harry for a lengthy, deadpan moment. “Trust me, I’m staying well clear of guys with erections.”

Harry is the one to laugh this time, it’s an odd sound, like a bear coming down with a cough; he tries to muffle it but his shoulders go up and down, betraying him.

Juice is joking with the son of the AB shot-caller, what a strange life it is he leads. Still, he can’t quite be at ease with this man; the gap that parts them is not one that can be jumped.

Tully could be funny too.

Juice goes cold, and withdraws back into himself where it’s safer.

“So… the guys, they’re all from here?” He asks.

They’re not guys. They’re boys.

“Apart from the koala and Raz. They’re the local muscle, shall we say. Protecting our dear little town from all things un-American.” Harry puts ‘un-American’ in air quotes to highlight what he thinks of that.

“The AB really got a base around here?” Juice is incredulous.

“Why not? It’s quiet, ninety percent white, and the police are a fucking joke. Last person they arrested was a cow for holding up traffic.”

Juice imagines that, it’s a very peculiar scene.

“Sure they don’t have the numbers or the glamour, but they move a good bit of cargo for the bosses.”

Cargo meaning drugs, people, guns, all manner of black market merchandise.

“Hey Tonto! Those beers chilled yet?” Harry hollers.

“Sorta.” Comes a sulky response.

“Bring two out, would you?”

Taking his time, Tonto brings out two beers for the men. Juice makes sure to meet the kid’s eye and tell him thanks, as sincere as he can be. If the kid notices, he doesn’t let on, just returns to the inside of the trailer.

Wise move.

“So what’s with the Indian brave?” Juice lowers his voice, aware that Tonto might be able to hear from inside, the window is open. 

“Native American, Jules. Tut tut.” Harry waggles his finger in mock disapproval. “Some little half-breed Shoshone, dad runs a motor shop up in Sycamore-”

Sycamore is the town, less than 60 square miles across, located near the Lahotan Reservoir. A speck on the map.

“Not that anyone ever sees the old bastard.” 

Juice considers the term ‘Half-breed.’

\----

_“What would the club do if they found out that you were black? Hm? You don't know? Let me break it down for you.”_

\----

Half, not complete.

All Juice knows is what he is lacking, he’s never quite enough. Too Puerto Rican to be black, too black to be Puerto Rican.

His life is still being meddled with by a man he’s never even met in the flesh.

Juice hand grips the scraper so tight his fingers begin to ache and go numb. “Why is he around white hate?”

That’s a question he should be asking himself; the thoughts cackle, and come up with an unsavoury metaphor involving flies and shit.

“Ask him, I’m damned if I know.” Harry gives a shrug. “Maybe he’s just looking for some easy cash, no one’s going to promote him up the ranks that for sure. But he gets paid to play drug donkey.”

He puts a pit of elbow grease into a very stubborn patch of enamel and watches in pleasure as it comes free.

There is a lull in their work, and Juice takes the opportunity to rest; leaning on the trailer and sipping at his drink. Soon enough, the buzz of the alcohol spreads though him like butterflies on a first date; he grows bolder with his interrogation of Harry. “Is that how you get into the AB, promotion?”

“Or you kill an existing member and take his place.” Harry’s adams apple bobs up as he takes long swigs.

“Wow.” Juice shouldn’t be surprised, the likes of Ron Tully couldn’t thrive in an organisation that was all about fair play and diplomacy. “That’s some animal planet bullshit.”

When Juice was stuck in the hospital after getting stabbed, he occupied himself with whatever mindless garbage was on the TV in his room. He grew oddly fascinated with wildlife documentaries, maybe finding a comparison in the unforgiving landscape of the savannah and the dog eat dog world of the MC.

“Survival of the fittest. Very third Reich.” Says Harry.

“How does a hopeful get promoted into a full AB member, then?” Juice looks down the nozzle of his beer bottle, watching the amber liquid swirl inside; nectar of the gods.

“You take as much shit as you can for a few years, then you get given a task. Complete it, and you get your mark and you take the oath.”

A similar concept to prospecting, a try-out period which wheedles out the weak from the strong; Juice managed to slip through the cracks, he knows this, perhaps in another one of the thousands of alternative realities he would have never made it to full patch.

He wonders where his alternate self would be right now. “What kinda tasks?”

“It varies, could be delivering a beat down, robbery of goods worth more than twenty grand…” Harry pauses, so that his next few words land like a lightning bolt.

Perhaps, in Harry’s alternative reality, he was a thespian. “Or killing a man of colour.”

The beer in Juice’s belly curdles, and he begins to sweat, and not from the weather. “Right..." "Relax, I'm not in the loop." Harry winks at him. Juice blinked. "Wait, you’re not AB?”

The harsh screech of a dirt bike’s engine cuts through the air like a whip, and the rider barely manages to pull up in front of the trailer without crashing into it. Juice jumps out of its path, Harry stands immovable; a puff of dust has been kicked up by the tires.

 “Harry!” The rider rips off his brain bucket and Juice recognises dark buzz cut from a few nights ago.

He goes by ‘Diesel’, and he along with his poker playing cohort are some of the aforementioned hopefuls that Harry was describing. 

All sorts of questions about laws regarding children and dangerous vehicles pop up but Juice squashes them; he’s not in Cali now, its different out here.

“Sup, Jules.”  Diesel punches Juice in the arm, which makes him almost drop his beer; he laughs, high and chipper, at Juice’s pain filled curse.

“What do you want, insect?”

“Got some… stuff for me?” The kid asks Harry, eyes hopeful.

“Depends, got some ‘stuff’ buying money? I’m not setting up a tab for you again.”

“Sure, sure.” Diesel moves like a rodent on stimulants, all frantic movements and twitching. His arms are adorned with flames; some backdoor tattoo artist made a fortune from this kid.

He pats down his cargo pants until he finds what he’s looking for; a wad of cash which makes Juice’s eyes bulge. Now, where did he get that?

Harry counts the bills before depositing the money somewhere discreet on his person. “That will do.” With the bored walk of an overworked pharmacist, Harry strolls over to his distinctive green pickup; he fusses with some boxes in the back.

“Hey Spic-” An arm wraps around Juice’s neck and tugs. As if some sort of terrible switch has been flicked, Juice loses control of his own body; it’s as if he’s looking through a window at himself and watching the events unfold.

The man, the person that is him but also not him has gone rigid, wound tight; staring a thousand miles away, eyes as empty as those doll’s Tig was so afraid of.

But it’s not Diesel who’s got him in a choke hold.

\----

_“Come here, Baby, you smell good.”_

\----

Juice’s life has become a real fun house of horrors, who knows what is waiting around the corner to ruin his day.

“You wanna party? Harry is the fucking man. Hook you up, he’s like a doctor he’s got so many drugs.”

Mercifully, Harry comes back over and Diesel lets go.

“Actually, doctors these days are reluctant to give out medications because of the high rates of addiction.” Harry tosses a small white bag in Diesel’s direction who doesn’t catch it but scoops it up from the ground; cradling it to his chest.  “Go nuts, little squirrel.”

Diesel makes tracks, hopping onto his kiddie bike and giving the engine some gas. “See ya, faggots!” And in a few seconds flat he and his death-trap of a ride are gone.

He’d fit right in to one of those roadrunner cartoons.

Harry looks nonplussed, despite just providing a teenager with suspicious drugs; he’s the real life version of that sketchy guy in an overcoat in a PSA that tempts innocent children into temptation.

All he lacks is the overcoat.

Juice is deeply unsettled; floating in a place of past and present, anchored by nothing. “You got a catalogue, Doctor? For those pills you peddle?”

“Why? You looking?” Harry scratches his nose, studying Juice with that unsettling, hyper intelligent gaze of his. It’s impossible to tell if he’s aware of Juice’s internal fight. “Anything specific?”

Juice’s mouth is completely dry. “Oblivion.”

Harry seems to understand. “I think I got that in stock.”

\----

"Wakey, wakey, sweet prince."

Before Conner can fully come around and even think about pressing the panic button, Chib grabs his by the throat and squeezes. 

Conner's eyes bulge, and he gasps for air like a fish pulled suddenly from the water.

Chibs looks down on him, and puts a finger to his lips in a 'shh' gesture; quickly checking over one shoulder to make sure they are alone. 

He has maybe forty-five minutes with Conner before the doctor comes in.

"Quiet, laddie. Now, I've got some questions for ye, and its in your interest to answer. Truthfully." He gets real close to Connor's terrified, pale face and whispers. "Or, they'll never find your body in this lifetime, got it?"

The other man nods. 

"Good choice, lad." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't do drugs mmmkay? XD yes Harry is not a nice man but haaaaay.


	9. Blossom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter guys! Comments are Kudos are greatly appreciated, they keep my motivated!
> 
> My Tumblr: http://let-me-finish-my-pie.tumblr.com/

Chibs slowly squeezes Connor’s throat, letting him get close to the edge of passing out before releasing the pressure, bringing him back again; giving him a taste of what his death might be like.  

It soon becomes clear that the man is no AB thug, or anyone else’s for that matter, he’s practically wetting himself with fear and Chibs hasn’t even begun yet. This will not take long.

“You were driving that bus to San Fransisco, aye? The one that was attacked?”

Connor nods frantically.

“What happened there, then?” Chibs asks. “Seems you came out pretty unscathed. I know who did it, and they’re not the kind to leave people alive if they don’t have to.”

Connor’s eyes flicker to the flowers on the table, but he says nothing.

Chibs begins to close his hand, Conner gags and grabs his wrist desperately. “Tell me, and I’ll go away, like I never even existed. Poof, gone.”

The other man spends an entire three seconds thinking about it, before choking out a soft “O-kay.”

The scot lets go of Connor’s neck, who wheezes, taking in as much air as he can; his colour starts to return to a normal, healthy pink.

“Look… I don’t know names, I never got names.”

“Just tell me what you do know.” Chibs says, impatient.

Connor looks regretful. “Some guy… came around after I got back from a night drive from Sacramento. Offered me five grand then and there to have a look at our driver schedules.” He lies back, looking over at Chibs. “I got child support to pay, I didn’t think it was a big deal. Guys like me don’t get breaks very often.”

“Cry me a bloody river.” Chibs growls. “What else?”

Connor is cowed, shrinking back into the bed. “T-The same guy came back, later, said he’d give me twenty big ones if I let his friends hijack the bus and…”

“Kidnap someone.” Chibs’ hands were curling into fists in the sheets.

Connor nodded, staring downward. “I…I know it was wrong but…I didn’t know what would happen if I said no. They seemed like pretty fucking scary people.”

Chibs grit his teeth. “Can ye describe the guy who paid you?”

“Um, white… middle aged I think? Shaved head… shamrock tattoo on his neck.”

It wasn’t much, the description could fit any AB skin head but perhaps the tattoo could narrow it done a little bit.

“Much obliged.” The old scot rubs his tired face with his hand and turns to leave, but before he does, he peers around the door one more time and adds “I’d keep one eye open if I where you. The AB don’t like loose ends.”

Leaving Connor with that to mull over, Chibs walked back the way he came, taking out his phone and preparing to call Jarry.

\----

Juice wasn’t sure if Harry’s idea of ‘oblivion’ quite matched up to his own.

When the younger man had handed him the unassuming little orange and white packet, he’d been disappointed and bewildered. He was expecting blow (after having developed a taste for it in Stockton) or maybe even a few mushrooms that would transport him to another dimension; anywhere else but here would do.

Harry, however, seemed to know something Juice didn’t (what else was new) giving him a coy wink before picking up a hay fork and going to muck out the horse.

Juice had met the animal the day before when exploring the property, it had its own little dusty pasture with a knocked about shelter at the far end. Juice knew nothing about horses, but he admitted there was pleasure in watching the animal move; its brown coat rippling over firm muscles, running as gracefully as a seal swims in the waves, perfect motion. Apparently her name was ‘Toffee’.  

Juice was steadily finding himself unable to take anything that Tully had named seriously; he doubted Tully had named his son, otherwise Harry might have ended up being called ‘Fluffy’ or ‘Snufflekins’.

The pills were called Ativan, and Juice took out some from one silver packet and lines them up on the laughably small kitchen ‘table’. They were the yellow of vomit and rotting lemons. He recognised what kind of drugs they were; benzodiazepines. Within the same family as Valium.

Harry didn’t take payment, telling Juice this first batch was a ‘free sample’.

\----

_“Juan Carlos, May I assume the stimulants are in your backpack bag?”_

\----

Juice decided to swallow them down one by one with a gulp of beer, waiting exactly thirty second before taking the next one. Then, he waited.

He put the dogs outside, letting them wander as they liked; they’d be back for dinner. They had impressive time keeping.

Soon enough Juice is feeling wonderfully light and feathery, kind of like lying on a huge mountain of cotton balls.

He laughs, then laughs again at how his voice sounds in his own ears; distorted and strange but somehow hilariously funny.

It’s as if there is nothing in the world that mattered anymore, Juice lets his body slip to the floor like a rag doll; he isn’t in the trailer, he is on cloud nine, and he wants to move in permanently.

Everything tingles, even his tongue, simple and pure bliss.

“Snufflekins…” Juice slurs. “You are indeed the fucking _man_.”

Despite his arms feeling like jello, Juice sat up on his elbows and took a lazy look across the kitchen, pausing when he saw his own reflection in the oven door. He frowns, it doesn’t look right.

He knows his hair isn’t that long, and he’s definitely not so pale; even when he wasn’t eating in prison, he still kept a hint of his tan hue. This person looks exhumed, cheeks hollow and presence completely void of anything resembling the flickering flame of life. The image isn’t perfect, darkened by the tint of the glass, but Juice knows that man too well to not recognise him.

Jax Teller smiles, the skin of his face as hard and as unnatural as wax. “Hey Juice.”

Juice is too shocked to tremble, to cry, to do anything other than meet the dead man’s gaze and mutter a quiet “Hey, Jax.”

“Nice place you got here, real homey.” Jax’s form isn’t solid, undefined, his profile a screaming, writhing mess of cockroaches. Behind him a fiery chasm opens up and putrid smoke begins to slowly fill the trailer.

Juice is frozen in utter bone chilling fear. “What are you doing here?”

“Funny, I was gonna ask you that.” Says the thing that might be Jax. “I thought by now you would have punched your own ticket for sure.” It looks at Juice with complete contempt. “But it looks like you can’t even do that right, huh?”

\----

_“Sons don’t kill themselves.”_

\----

The flood gates open, Juice’s eyes _drip drip drip_ with a river of tears. His throat is clogged with the emotions. “I’m-”

“Sorry? Oh yeah I’ve heard before.” Jax-thing taunts, a long black forked tongue darting in between his lips. “You _should_ be sorry. It should be YOU burning in here and not me.”

With a shriek, Jax-thing punches the glassy wall of his prison and a long crack appears in the oven door; threatening to burst and let out all the awful things.

“Leave me alone!” Juice scrambles up, tearing through the trailer like a rapid animal before fall through the door and outside. It’s dark.

Juice runs in a random direction, the Jax-thing might be chasing him so he needs to get as far away as possible. His socks snag on some thorny bushes but it doesn’t stop him; instinctive blind panic keeps him going until he is stopped by another body bumping into him.

“What in Christ-?!”

Juice flails in the dust, begging that Jax-thing kills him quickly and that he doesn’t feel it because he can’t stand any more pain.

“You off on a night walk, Spic?” The man above him snarls, fury coating his every word.

But it’s not Jax-thing. Juice is hauled upwards and his eyes meet those of a demon painted on a wide, solid chest. It’s Mitch.

“I should have just chained you in the goddam barn… come on.” Mitch drags him along like an errand dog. Juice can’t really walk, his feet scuff up the dirt and his heels make long snaking lines behind him.

“When I find that fucker Harry, I’m going to cut his nuts off.”

\----

“What have you got for me, Phillip?” Jarry asks as soon as she picks up the phone.

“Connor sang like a wee birdie. He’s not AB, but he was paid off by them to let the abduction happen.” Chibs relays. It wasn’t much, but it was progress.

“Shit… well I can bring him in for questioning, it would help prop the case up a little longer.” Jarry suggests. They are on limited time.

“I dunno lass, we don’t want the AB knowing we’re looking into things.” Who knows why the AB are harbouring Juice, but they may decide he’s not worth the trouble if they find out SAMCRO is on their tail.

There’s another person in the background, Chibs can hear them. “Could you pass the phone over, dearie?”

The scot frowns. “Jarry is that-”

“Hello, Shortbread.”

“…Venus.” Chibs is concerned. “Why are you with Jarry?”

“Oh we girls are just having ourselves a gossip and a coffee.” Venus replied, smooth and honeyed.

This can only mean pain for him in the future. “Uh huh.”

“Also, I think this project of ours might work better as a collaboration.”

Chibs chuckles, Venus is quite the busy body. “Oh yes?”

“Venus has ears and eyes everywhere, shortbread, I can put my pretty feelers out there to find the man who sold the gun.” She purrs.

“Well, I suppose we need all the help we can get.” There is no stopping this woman once she has her mind on something, although Chibs can only imagine what Tig’s reaction is going to be.

He’s too old for this.

“Could you put Jarry back on?” he asks.

“Sure thing.” There is a shuffle as the phone is passed.

“Phillip?”

“Did she threaten you?”

Jarry’s chuckle is rare, and rings like a bell. “Not with violence, but she is a persuasive lady.”

“That she is.” Chibs agrees.

\----

“Hey! Dumbasses!”

The barn is filled with a lazy euphoric energy, the kind that manifests after a night of drinking; a few beer cans are scattered about the place like distasteful ornamental art pieces.

Mitch shatters the peace instantly, marching in and tossing Juice to the floor at the feet of Raz, who looks down in half drunk confusion. Juice is quickly coming down from his terrifying trip, soaked with sweat and dizzy from the fear he’d felt.

It wasn’t real, it wouldn’t have been.

“I just caught this Spic trying to hoof it to Vegas, and where exactly were you three cum stains?”

\----

_“I’m a coward.”_

\----

Blue and Diesel are sitting on wooden boxes, looking over but not rising when Mitch addresses them; they probably want to stay out of harm’s way. Juice also notices Tonto hovering in his peripheral, no doubt keeping himself safe by avoiding Tully’s lieutenant entirely.

“We-um…” Raz fumbles over his words. “We didn’t think he was gonna run, Harry said-”

“Damn right you didn’t think!” Mitch is a lion, all blonde hair and sharp teeth, he looms over Raz who steps back but hits a beam; trapped with nowhere to go. He gets real close to the younger man’s face and roars.

 “If I have my way, all three of you will be shovelling horse shit for the next thirty years, you are _nothing_ , you understand?” He adjusts his volume to a devastating low tone, delivering a crushing blow. “You aint worthy to be seen with the AB. Get it?”

Raz, humiliated, averts his gaze like a scolded school boy.

“Where the fuck is Harry?” Mitch demands, looking around as if he expects Harry to walk out like this is some kind of comedy show.

“Mending a fence.” Diesel murmurs.

“In the goddam _dark?_ ” Mitch snarls, throws his hands up and stalks away.

The silence is thick and Raz stands where Mitch left him, only now he is quaking with rage.

He spots Juice, and lunges for him.

Juice is still too unsteady to get away, he babbles like a mad man. “No-no I wasn’t running away! I was high!”

“Shut up!” Juice could be wrong, he’s not fully back from his trip yet, but there seems to be some wetness on Raz’s face; it smudges an oil stain he’s manged to get on his cheekbone. He plucks up a length of rope from a hook and pulls Juice towards a tractor.  

“Nobody calls me _nothing_ -”

Juice is tied to the wheel of the rusted vehicle, and out of one the mysterious wooden boxes Raz takes a rather large M16 rifle and loads it. It seems the AB are packing some serious artillery.

Blue, sensing what is about to happen, calls out “Wait- you fucking idiot-!”

Raz shoots, he shoots several bullets in fact.

 It seems he’s either too drunk to aim right or is deliberately missing, as the metal projectiles ping off the body work of the tracker or lodge in the wall behind Juice; who lets out a cry of terror and huddles behind his only protection, ironically the very thing he’s tied too.

“Holy crap!” Says Diesel, his mouth open in an entertained smiling gasp.

“You’re wasting the ammo you bloody great fuckwit!”

Raz stops his fire, and turns his head towards Blue ferociously only for him to slip on a crumpled bear can lying nearby. His hand is still on the trigger, and the gun lets off another earth shaking boom followed by a piercing howl of pain.

“Diesel!”

The kid plummets to the floor like a coin dropped down a well, he rolls around and screeches. The stray bullet has caught him, by the looks of things, in his left arm.

“My arm! My arm!”  

The young men drop everything and rush over, holding Diesel down by the shoulders as they inspect their handy work. Raz has gone white, having left the gun resting in the dirt where he had been firing it off; it still smokes a little, the echo of the gunshot lingering in the atmosphere.

Juice stares, gobsmacked.

“Oh fuck me dead… he’s bleeding everywhere!” Blue yells, fisting his hands into his chestnut hair, tugging at it desperately.

“Shit- oh shit-” Raz is panicking, repeating his mantra over and over again.

Tonto stands apart from the group, his eyes fixated on the wounded teenager; expression a mixture of fascination and horror.

This would be the perfect opportunity to escape, but alas.

No amount of tugging is going to undo these knots, and they’re too thick to chew through. Juice is not going anywhere unless he is untied.

His mouth starts to move before he can get control of it. “Hey-! I know first aid!”

Blue and Raz look over.

 _Shit_ , he’s got to commit to this now. “Let me go! And I’ll help him!” Juice wiggles his hands for emphasis.

Raz stays with Diesel as Blue approaches, giving Juice a narrow eyed look the colour of a clouded over day. “I don’t fucking believe you, brownie.”

“Fine, then the kid bleeds to death.” Juice snaps back.

Blue’s face contorts, he’s caught in a true dilemma. “You better be telling the truth…” Using a pocket knife from his belt, he cuts Juice loose; who should make haste and get out of there.

But Diesel’s cries of hurt make Juice’s gut twist. Despite knowing he’s just digging a deeper hole for himself, Juice runs over and kneels next to the teen.

There is a _lot_ of blood, and it’s leaked out all over the shirt Diesel is wearing; making an awful red and grey tie dye effect. Juice doesn’t have a medical eye, but he can tell this isn’t something that can be fixed with band aids and Advil.

“Oh man. Okay- um, we need to stem the bleeding! Give me something!” Juice demands, it’s all he can think of.

“Like what?”

“Something!”

Tonto begins to hop on one leg like a maniac, and for half a second Juice thinks he is doing some kind of healing dance. But he is actually removing his left shoe in order to give Juice his sock; not ideal but better than nothing. “Huh, smart.”

Why didn’t he think of that?

Juice presses the slightly pungent sock against the gushing wound, it quickly absorbs the blood and turns a nasty crimson colour.

“Oh…this is…” Now that Juice isn’t being splattered, he takes a closer look at the damage. The bullet seems to have passed through Diesel’s arm and settled in one of his ribs.

“I think it’s lodged in his side.” Juice says, understanding this is a lot more serious than he first thought.

Diesel is becoming paler as the minutes tick by, and even when Juice has tied the sock around his arm, raised it, and applied pressure to the wound on his ribs he knows it’s not enough.

The young men watch, anxious. “You gotta take the bullet out.” Blue advises.

“What?!” Juice cries.

“You said you knew first aid!” Raz growls.

“Hey! I am _not_ qualified to perform complex operations okay?!” The bluff has clearly come back to bite him, there is nothing more he can do for Diesel; oh how he wishes he had paid more attention to Tara when she was patching them up. “He needs a doctor! A real one.”

Oh god, the blood is dripping down his fingers.

“Should we call an ambulance?” Raz asks, eyes wide.

Blue seized the other man by the collar of his wife beater and snarls. “Oh yeah smart arse, let’s do that, and invite the police while we’re at it to come and look at all the illegal _shit_ we’ve got stashed in here!”

“I’m gonna pass out…” Diesel groans, as grey as a statue.

“No-no, no-” Juice lightly smacks the boy on the cheek to keep him awake. “No passing out.”

This is desperate. They can’t leave him like this. “Where is the nearest hospital?”

“Lahontan. Like… five miles away.” Blue supplies, looking very much worried.

Too far too walk, and they can’t call anyone to help.

Whether it was the trace remnants of the pills in his system, or the sight of a sixteen year old writhing in agony, sluggishly leaking blood, Juice is inspired to act.

He takes in a deep, fortifying breath. “Alrighty, whose got a car?”

The young men look blank, until Raz pipes up. “Harry’s truck is outside.”

“Great. The keys in it?”

“Yeeah…” Raz drawls. As if he doesn’t know what Juice is getting at.

“Perfect.” Juice wraps the kids’ good arm around his neck and as carefully as he can manage, he hoists Diesel up into a kind of slumped standing position.

“Hey, Kangaroo jack- get his legs.”

Blue glowers and clenches his fists, but for the greater good he does as he is told. “It’s Blue, you fucking Spic.”

“If I hear that word once more I’m gonna shoot _you_ in the fucking arm!”

Between them and with Raz running outside to jump into the truck and start the engine, they get Diesel out of the barn.

“Easy with him!” Juice barks, then gets ready to lift. “In the back, in the back!”

The kid flops into the back of the truck like he has no bones, and Blue props him up as best he can with Juice keeping the pressure on his wounds.

“…it hurts.” Diesel whimpers. He’s so _young_.

“You, stay here.” Tonto doesn’t waste his breath arguing when Juice gives him the orders. “Tell Harry we’re going to Lahotan Hospital.” The boy turns and in a small cloud of dust he flees into the night, Juice can just about make out the white soles of his sneakers as he runs.

“He’s gonna kill us for taking his truck.” Blue winces, obviously Harry has quite the reputation among them.

“I don’t give a damn.” Juice thumps the truck’s driver compartment with his fist. “Drive, idiot!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo. Some trip huh?
> 
> The medication and side effects (though rare) are all real, Juice is just in the small percentage of people who react badly to Ativan.


	10. Where The Rose

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another looong one XD enjoy guys!
> 
> Check out my lame edits for this series, here: http://let-me-finish-my-pie.tumblr.com/tagged/aplv

The drive is hell.

The truck hurtles down the road and only narrowly misses a few unfortunate animals who are out and about at this hour.

Diesel whimpers every time they hit a bump and Juice struggles to maintain the pressure, they are being shaken about like pebbles in a tin can. Blue uses his body weight to try and keep Diesel from being jostled too much, but it’s a hard thing; blood has speckled his shirt and hands.

They jump red lights and cut up everyone else on the road, sirens honk and people yell out of their windows at them as they pass.

Finally they screech into the parking lot of Lahontan medical centre, and the sudden stop makes Juice feel as if he’s going to hurl; he’s been feeling queasy for the last mile or so, but really, really didn’t want to throw up on Diesel.

As if the poor kid hasn’t had a rough night already.

Raz jumps out of the front and is at the back in a flash. “Hey! How is he?”

“You fucking crazy bastard!” Blue curses, almost frothing at the mouth. “Were you trying to kill us?!”

“Hey! We needed to get here quickly!” Raz argues.

“ _Priorities_ you assholes!” Juice interjects, hopping out of the back with his legs wobbling and his heart pounding as fast as a butterflies wing beat. “Carry him in, I’ll go tell the front desk…”

He runs inside, the doors opening automatically and he stumbles over, pushing past a few patients waiting to be seen and they grumble and glare in his direction; he could not give a shit.

“Hey- look, I got a kid whose really hurt-“

The woman, middle aged with thick glasses looks at him with mild annoyance. “There is a line, sir, and is it an emergency?”

Juice hears a few gasps behind him. Blue and Raz have managed to drag Diesel out of the truck and have him walk slowly across the waiting area to the desk. He looks ready to pass out, face contorted in pain, his wounded arm and side sticky and red.

Juice turns back to the lady and says “Does _that_ look like an emergency to you?”

\----

_“Stitch me up! You sons of bitches!”_

\----

Thankfully someone presses a button and a few nurses swarm the three men, taking Diesel off their hands and putting him on a trolley.  

Juice watches as the kid is wheeled away, the doctors shouting medical jargon above his head.

“Go with him.” Juice tells the pair of idiots. “He’ll be scared.”

Juice was scared when he was stabbed in jail.

“And… does he have parents? He has parents right?” Juice asks, surely the kid must be fed by someone.

“I’ll call his old man…” Raz excuses himself to make the call, and Blue reluctantly follows the route where the doctors have swept off Diesel into the bowels of the hospital.

Juice quietly asks where he could find a coffee machine, and the lady behind the desk mutely points him in the right direction.

“Thanks…” he mumbles, going in search of some caffeine to wake him from this nightmare.

\----

_“Do you believe in hell, sweetheart?”_

_“I live in it.”_

_“Nah, baby, this ain’t hell. Hot like it but not the real thing, you’ll know when you get there.”_

\----

Juice has kept the money he was handed at the gates of Stockton, stashing most of it away in a hidey hole in the trailer; but always having a few dollars in his jeans back pocket just in case.

The machine gurgles and spits out a thick black sludge, Juice doesn’t bother with sugar or milk, and when he drinks it, the coffee singes his mouth; it’s vile, yet strangely fortifying.

This is the coffee of husbands waiting for news of their unborn children, of relatives waiting for the doctors to let them know that grandpa has slipped beyond the veil.

That’s one of the reasons Juice hated hospitals, apart from the smell; the thought that somewhere in this building there were people dying. Hopefully today, Diesel wouldn’t be one of them.

Why he care so much for the kid Juice didn’t know, the fate of a Neo-Nazi teeny-bopper should mean less than nothing to him. But Juice had never been good at being cold.

Perhaps if Juice had been cold, he wouldn’t have crumbled after killing Miles.

Juice refilled his cup once he’d finished, spending more of his precious few bills, and turned to walk back the way he’d come when he almost collided into a large man leaning on the wall.

Juice startled like a rabbit, letting out something close to a squeak, his coffee spilling over and scalding his hand; brown streams intermingling with the blood stains on his cuffs.

He hadn’t even heard Harry breathing.

“What the _hell_ , man?!”

Harry blinked slowly, the temperature around him dropping about ten degrees. “So-” He drawled, tapping his fingers in a smooth motion against the wall. “You stole my truck?”

The last time Juice was asked if he’d stolen a large automobile, he had pointed in the direction of the real culprit; but Half-Sack is not here to take the blame this time.

\----

Telling Tig was similar to pulling out a fingernail; undeniably painful but better if done fast so that the healing could start as soon as possible.

Chibs hadn’t forced Venus to get involved on their ‘Project Ortiz’ as she lovingly called it, but now she was, he couldn’t keep Tig out of the loop.

It wouldn’t be fair, besides, there was a chance the secret could slip out between the pillows of his and Venus’ bed anyway (not that he doubted Venus’ integrity) and Chibs didn’t know how… messy this affair was going to become.

If there was even a slight chance Tig’s old lady could be put in peril, it was his right to know; Chibs would want the same if it were Fiona.

He wasn’t sure how to class Jarry at this point in time, ‘friends with benefits’ sounded too infantile, and ‘fuck buddy’ risked demeaning what they had; this undefinable, uncontainable _thing_. 

Chibs didn’t do this unprepared, however. He first made sure Venus was present, to curb any bloodshed, and set Tig up with a huge banana split at the front counter in the ice cream parlour; with sprinkles.

Chibs himself stuck with some brandy, to give him some courage.

The rape is the hardest part of the tale to tell, and Jax’s part in it the cherry on top.

\----

_“…how long was it going on for?” He asks, his voice a troubled murmur._

_“Well, he was in there for thirteen months…so.”_

\----

But good old Tig chooses to pick up on something else.

“So, you’ve been sneaking behind our backs this whole time?” Tig growled, distaste laces his every word. He let his spoon drop forgotten into his bowl.

 “I always planned to tell you, I just didn’t know when.” Chibs explained, and knew it was a flimsy excuse the moment it left his lips. Even he wouldn’t believe it. “The Club’s still hurting, Tig, this could set us back a few months.”

“That’s bullshit.” Tig snapped. “You just don’t want to deal with the flying shit that’ll hit you.”

Tig knew him well, he was a true brother, closer than blood could ever make them; but this also meant he could cut through any defences Chibs attempted to build for himself.

“I thought things were gonna be different. But I guess we’re back to the old days, huh?”

He sounds truly aggrieved by this, and the old Scot reassures him with a shoulder squeeze; Tig is as tense as a tightly coiled spring under his hand.

“They _are_ , Tig.” Chibs promises. “But… I can’t, I can’t leave this unresolved.”  

“Why the fuck not?”Tig smacks the hand away, his eyes are ablaze with something more complex than mere rage. “That rat stole from us, then killed a brother and then fucking spun us some story to cover his ass!”

He points a finger on the counter to emphasise his point. “That’s all he ever cared about, Chibs! His own neck!”

Venus, who had been refilling the candy jars, smoothly turns around like a china ballerina and puts her own painted hand over Tig’s to soothe him. “He was scared, Alexander. People do all kinds of fool hardy things when they’re scared.”

Tig has the biggest soft spot for Venus, he will not blow up in front of her. He sighs, heavily, and kisses her knuckles and looks over them; gazing up at his love, trying to make her understand.

“We trusted him, beautiful…” The memories are difficult for him to revisit. “We put Miles in an unmarked hole in the ground on _his_ word.”

“And that ain’t right, Tiger. But adding more wrongs to it isn’t going to make everything better.” She strokes his face, using her own powers to make _him_ see from her point of view. “Somewhere out there that boy is hurting, and I’m compelled to do something about that.”

“You’re too kind, Venus.”  Tig muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Yeah, it’s some sick shit Chibs, but… he’s not out problem.” He takes a few more bites of his mushy ice cream mess.

He paused. “Not unless you want to take a mayhem vote.”

“Can’t do that, Tigger.” Chibs couldn’t do it, he couldn’t. He lowers his voice, tilting his body inwards and making sure Tig gets how serious he is about this; he’s not giving up on Juicy boy again.

“You don’t think I’m pissed at him? I cared for that boy, I told him to let it go… he still couldn’t trust me with the truth.” He licks his lips. “And Miles…”

\---

_“Lying bitch.”_

\----

Miles was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

But what would Juice have done if he’d been discovered by Tig, Happy, or himself?

Would he have pulled the trigger still?

“I don’t know if I can forgive that, but this is about something bigger.”

Chibs has never had what he calls a way with words, he calls a pussy a pussy and gets on with things; there are many, many feelings yet to be dissected here, and he finds he lacks the vocabulary to articulate them.

Still, he makes a valiant effort.

“Jax’s legacy is haunting us like a fucking wraith, we need to purge ourselves of it. Do an exorcism.” He says.

Venus and Tig are watching him intently.

“We can’t move on until it’s done. I’m not saying we take Juice back, we just… make it right. Fix our karma.”

Venus doesn’t need convincing, so it’s up to Tig now.

“Fuck it.” The fellow biker throws his hands up, running a hand through his oily brown hair. It would be greyer if he weren’t so sensitive about his age, he must spend a fortune on hair dye. “I could do with some excitement. If I see another vintage Harley I might actually shoot myself.”

Chibs smiles, genuine and grateful. That’s another one on side, more help for Juice. “Thanks, Tig.”

Venus claps her hands. “It seems like we’re in business, boys. Let Venus fix you up some more banana splits.”

She gets busy chopping and scooping, and Chib looks on with fondness; he truly has come to love Venus, the clubhouse is a cold, boring place in her absence.

Tig takes the opportunity to lean in while she’s distracted. “I’d lay it on thick about the rape to Hap.” He murmurs to his Prez. “You know how he feels about that. Might save Juice’s neck.”

Ah, Happy.

That’s a whole other matter entirely.

\---

“The kid had holes in him, what was I supposed to do?”

“I don’t know if you’re aware, but there are these devices called _phones_ which can summon a magical thing called an _ambulance_ -”

Harry’s patronising little lilt is enough to spark Juice into a temper, and he doesn’t care how many people hear him shout. “We were sitting in a barn full of weapons! And who even keeps guns out in the open like that anyway?!”

He cannot believe the rank stupidity of it, how does the AB even function? Did everything go to shit when Tully went to prison? He’s left the equivalent of the hyenas from the Lion King in charge.

 “And-” Juice drew in a breath. “Why the flying fuck did you leave drunk _children_ alone with loaded firearms?!” He demands, he won’t let Harry wise-ass his way out of this one.

The target of his spleen is, as usually, detached and uncaring; which makes Juice feel both absurd and even more furious. “They were supposed to check the shipment and put them away to be picked up.” Harry says, his carefully sculpted expression of boredom is so infuriating that Juice could punch it. “Not my fault they re-enacted Call of Duty.”

“You’re a douchebag...” Juice laughs, humourlessly, then throws caution to the four winds and gets as close to Harry as he is able; their noses nearly touching,

“That kid could have died, and all you care about is your truck?”

Harry remains unmoved, he locks eyes with Juice and the other man could swear this is what soon-to-be roadkill feels being stared down by a speeding SUV. “If that blood doesn’t come out, I’m gonna add _yours_ to it.”

Using his shoulder, Harry easily forces Juice out of his way and walks away.

“Where are you going?” Juice demands at his back.

“To check on your precious darling.” Harry replies without looking around once. If Juice had a gun, he’d put one in the back of that cold fucker’s head; see what he thought about that.

Once he’s gone, Juice pounds the nearest wall with his fist. He stands there for a few minutes, fuming.

Maybe he will be really immature and write something obscene on Harry’s beloved truck, as it seems that vulgar messages of hatred seem to be how these people communicate. AB or not, the guy seems to be fighting for the title of supreme asshole.

“Long night, eh Kitten?”

Well, perhaps he comes in a close second to Mitch.

“Really?” Juice asks, reaching his maximum capacity for putting up with other people’s shit for one day. “I am _so_ not in the mood for this, dude.”

Mitch slithers over, he’s switched his angry boss routine for that of a horny serpent. What is with these guys? Does Juice have a neon sign above his head that says ‘Free Fucks’? Maybe everyone in the AB has a type and Juice is it.

Perhaps the only way they can think to assert their dominance is to violate the obstacle in their way.

“It seems you’re getting yourself into mischief.” Mitch is sweaty, having no doubt worked himself up with the night’s events, and he corners Juice. “Maybe I should remind you about your _place_.”

He’s not a bad looking dude, blonde and cut, like Jax was; and like Jax, his pretty face is hiding nothing but selfishness and bile.

“What’s that?” Juice asks, high and innocent, quirking his ear up. “You _want_ to choke on my big brown dick? Well, that is a tempting offer but-”

Mitch slams him into the same wall he just punched, hard enough to jostle his ribs and knock the wind from Juice’s chest. “How about you choke on mine, eh? I’d use that smart mouth for something useful.”

\----

_“Mouthy today, hm?” Tully is unfazed by Juice’s behaviour, as if he’s a tired teacher dealing with the usual antics of a disobedient student._

_He has a patience that could outlast god. “How about I put that to good use?”_

\----

“Hey, lovebirds.”

Harry is back, because of course he is.

Mitch looks suitably pissed off that his dance is being cut short. “Why don’t you take a walk, junior?”

A muscle in Harry’s face twinges, and Juice is surprised that Mitch has managed to inspire a reaction with just a few words. They are clearly old enemies.

“Why don’t I call the old man and say his lieutenant is a handsy motherfucker?” Harry counters, just as quick, using what he knows best will hurt Mitch in turn.

Juice has truly had it with being treated like a simpering damsel that needs to be watched. He shoves Mitch back and puts an acceptable amount of space between them. “I can handle it, asshole.”

“Sure, sure.” Harry scratches his nose. “I’d go do some damage control if I were you, Mitchell, I’m sure the three bears will love to know what’s happening with their beehive.”

Juice knows the code well, picked up the lingo in Stockon.

He’s referring to the three heads of the table, Tully included, that oversee a twelve man council. A hierarchy of the worst of the worst.

Mitch is in a bind, in terms of rank he’s on the lower end; lieutenant to only the third in command, the bigger, meaner bullies than him to worry about. He skulks off, and Juice watches in satisfaction.

“Any news about the kid?” Juice enquires, keen to know if Diesel will come out of this okay.

“He’ll live.” Harry says. “How were those pills by the way? Good, right?”

Juice gives Harry a very long look, trying to understand him, if that’s possible. “Are you the devil?”

The younger man lets out a bark of laughter, truly amused. “I wish. C’mon. Best get you back in your box.”

Juice lets himself be guided, and they leave the corridor, through the waiting area and step out into the early morning almost darkness. Blue and Raz are sitting on a low wall outside.

Blue is chain smoking from the looks of it, and Raz is staring into space, his leg bouncing with nerves; if there are to be consequences, they will fall on him, he fired the gun.

Juice doesn’t expect what happens next.

“Hey.”Raz greets them and gives Juice a quick glance, muttering under his breath. “Thanks. For the… first aid”

Blue puffs, but adds nothing.

Juice blinks, staring. “You’re welcome?”

“Jules. Let’s go.”

Juice remains looking at Raz, in case the young man has more to say, but when nothing more is forthcoming he follows Harry to where they half parked, half abandoned the truck earlier.

“Aren’t they coming?” Juice gets into the passenger seat.

“Nah, they got to take it all in.” Harry carefully closes the door, not allowing it to bang. “After all, a man of colour just saved their friend’s life. Isn’t that just something to put in a sandwich and chew on?”

He lets that stew in Juice’s head while he gets the engine going.

“Sorry about your truck.” It was a means to an end, but in hindsight Juice knows he would have gone nuts if someone up and took his bike.

Harry backs up the old vehicle. “If you clean this as good as you did the trailer, then we’ll be all square.”

Juice summons the energy to quirk his mouth into a smirk. “Sure thing, Snufflekins.”

“…What did you call me?”


	11. I Shall

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> PLEASE READ! Heavy warnings in this chapter guys: Past Non-Con, implied Rape, non consenting phone sex, emotional manipulation. 
> 
> Apart from that, have fun reading! :)

Tully called two days later.

Juice was in the middle of frying bacon, Sugar and Spice are respectively sitting at his left and his right; gazing hopefully up at the sizzling pan.

Juice is weak, and sets aside a few rashers on a plate for them; waiting for the meat to be cool enough to eat.

He keeps the phone on him always, in case he should need to summon Harry from whatever dark void he dwells in, or if someone were to call him; of course that could only be one person.

When the phone vibrates in his pocket it causes an immediate response; Juice freezes, his whole body tensing and his insides becoming tangled like jungle vines. His heart leaps to rest on the back of his tongue.

Buzz. Buzz.

Turning off the heat, Juice reaches down and pulls the phone from his pocket and places it on his ear. “Tully?”

He chuckles from the other end of the line. “You expecting me, baby?”

\----

_“Oh, I’ll see you later, baby.”_

\----

“You’re the only one that calls me, Ron.” Juice responds dryly.

Tully hums softly, thinking. “You feeling lonesome up there?”

Juice leans on a wall, hungry and hoping that this conversation will be over soon so he can eat. “I’ve got the dogs and… Harry, I guess.”

Sugar and Spice are lying down nearby, unconcerned; Juice envies them.

“He’s a dutiful one.” Says Tully,

Still no confirmation of his parentage, but Harry is a bit too young to be Tully’s brother; he could be a nephew, but Juice prefers his original theory. He thinks about asking, but doesn’t want to talk to Tully longer than he has to. 

He’s starting to get used to having Harry around, they even hd an almost normal conversation the other day.

Harry asked about Queens, having noticed Juice’s accent, and Juice in turn managed to squeeze out some info of his own; as it turns out, Harry was born in Ohio.

Over-thinking his relationship with Tully will complicate matters; Juice only just learned to stop flinching when the younger man appears.

“Yeah.”

Tully clicks his tongue. “So, you’ve had a busy few days I hear.”

Juice considers it all, Diesel getting shot, the hospital, Mitch being a creep. “Something like that.” He sighs, feeling the heaviness of it resting on him.

“I also hear that the kid is going to make a full recovery, that’s good. Shame to lose someone so young and full of life.” Tully doesn’t sound the least bit regretful, what is one stupid kid to him when another could easily replace him?

That makes Juice angrier than he has been in a while, he clenches his free hand into a fist. Diesel is not replaceable. “Uh-huh.”

“You saved that kid’s bacon, sweetheart, be proud of yourself.”

Pretty ironic, considering. Although Tully’s turn of phrase actually puts Juice off his breakfast now; he has a way of contaminating things. “I stole Harry’s truck. He didn’t like that.”

“Him and that damned truck.” Now, Tully does have a resigned father’s inflection, Juice imagines him rubbing his eyes or shaking his head in a what-am-I-going-to-do-about-him manner.

“If it weren’t for you, that kid could be taking a dirt nap right about now… I told you you’d be just fine, didn’t I?”

More posing, more ego, more trying to lull Juice into a false sense of security with his praise; and the worst, the very worst thing it that it makes Juice glow a little. Does he truly think so little of himself that he’ll accept the honeyed poison of this man as real words of affection?

“Yeah, you did.”

“…say, sweetheart, wanna try something new?” Something shifts in Tully’s voice, he becomes softer, and yet more powerful.

Juice is alarmed. “…like what?”

“Do exactly as I say.” He says first, then “Are you wearing sweats or jeans?”

Juice looks down, unsure where this is going exactly. “Jeans?”

“Unbutton them, baby.”

He should hang up, right now, end it; cut the wire, defuse the bomb. But his hands begin to move, and Juice can’t stop them. His mind has already gone far away where his physical form can’t follow.

“…okay.” He opens up the front of his jeans, and waits.

“Now, put your hand down there and get a good feel.” Tully purrs.

He knew it was coming, but Juice lies to himself and acts stunned. “I- What?”

“You heard me.” Tully will not repeat himself, not for anyone.

\----

_“Come on, honey, let’s get this done.”_

\----

Juice’s hand trails down, past his fly, into his boxers. With a soft gasp he grips himself, feeling the limp organ in his wrist; he is clammy all over.

Spice seems to detect there is something off, as she looks over with a half cautious, half curious glint in her eye; running her pink tongue over her lips.

Juice turns his back to her.

“Good, now… start stroking…” Tully’s breathing changes becoming more breathy and aroused. This is getting him off, forcing Juice to play a part in his sordid fantasy.

Juice tries to stop it, his dignity not completely dead yet. “Don’t make me do this.” He whispers. He may as well be speaking Sanskrit.

“Shhh… it’ll feel good, sweetheart.”

Fighting is hard, the effort is too much, and it’s so _simple_ to fall into the old rhythm of their liaisons inside; even if Tully isn’t physically present.

The hand is not his own.

The walls become grey, murky and surround him like a fog. The only direction he can go in is the one given to him by Tully.

“Getting hard, baby?” He husks, enjoying the torture he’s conducting.

“Y-yeah.”

The body reacts to stimulation, that’s all it is, he can’t be feeling anything else; he doesn’t want it, he doesn’t _want_ it.

But this is not the first time Tully has made him cum.

Once, late, maybe midnight he came for a visit. He pushed Juice against the wall and Juice assumed the position he always took, he knew the routine; pain, pain, pressure, release. But Tully’s hand had wondered downward, so Juice was forced to watch himself growing hard in the other man’s pale grip.

\---

_“That’s it, sweetheart, let it happen.”_

\----

“Getting all hot and bothered? Thinking about me? My hands on you?”

Juice wretches, perplexed by the sensations he’s feeling; he cannot name it, this mixture of excitement and hatred, of defilement. “I-”

“Keep breathing, baby… I’m getting close.”

Juice is suffocating. Falling deeper. “Tully…”

“Again. Say it _again_.”

“Tully.”

A harsh, hoarse moan lets Juice know that Tully has finished, which is swiftly followed by his own orgasm; that reminds him that even his body can betray him in the worst ways.

“Oh baby…” Tully sounds sated, like a cat that has eaten its fill. “You complete me.”

Complete, to make whole. As if he and Tully were two pieces made for each other.

All Juice is focusing on is the sticky feeling, staring down as his cock now goes limb. The tingle from the climax feels close to many tiny needles stabbing through his skin.

“I’ll speak to you soon, sweetheart, look after yourself, now. I sent you a gift, it should arrive soon.”

Like nothing, he hangs up.

Juice looks at the mess of his hands, his jeans, and the wall. But he doesn’t sob, or hurt himself this time; although he’s already crying, but without the sounds.

The thoughts tell him that he’s dirty, and they’re right.

First things first, Juice pops one of Harry’s magic pills, and another; his fingers shake as he opens the packet.

Then, he goes to the sink and begins to run the water; putting in the black rubber plug. Slowly, Juice retrieves the bleach from inside one of the cupboards and pours the contents into the water until the smell assaults his nose.

He tests the temperature; it’s fine.

Juice begins to wash his hands, then dries them, checks, and repeats.

\---

“So power rangers, How are we gonna save the world this week?” Tig is in a better mood, having the idea now squared in his mind; he must have made some private peace with Juice, or at least, enough to go along with Chibs’s plan.

Venus would have had something to do with it.

“Hilarious, Trager.” Jarry has never warmed to Tig, seeing in him all the leering comments and jokes of her less enlightened co-workers who think she’s just there to look appealing for them.

Chibs won’t deny that Tig is an acquired taste; hell, he hated the pervert when they first met. But like moss, Tig slowly grows on you.

“I want dibs on being the green one.” He says, trying to keep the mood light; odd, given the seriousness of the reason they’re meeting here. The front of the ice cream parlour is quiet, and away from ears they don’t want hearing.

“Both of you are children. Where’s Venus? Clearly she has the brains of this outfit.” Jarry has already grown bored of Tig’s antics.

“Spa day, but made me told me to pass on a message.” The man himself replies.

That captures both Jarry and Chibs’ interest.

“Go on.” Jarry encourages.

“She might have found who sold the gun.”

Now this, this is something they can work with, actual progress and not mere speculation and throwing out darts in the dark.

Tig, understandably, looks very pleased with himself, although he isn’t the one that’s done anything impressive.  “She’s waiting on confirmation, bless her heart she doesn’t want us roughing up the wrong scum bag.”

Chibs lets out a dry cough. “Wouldn’t that be a shame?”

The old scot would gladly take his fist to whichever swastika branded filth stumbles across his path first, but they need to be strategic.

“Theres… been a development on my end too.” Jarry adds, uneasy. “Connor is dead.”

She allows that to sit with them, and Tig, as usual, is the first to react. “Shit, the guy in the hospital?”

Chibs isn’t surprised.

“Yeah. Looks like some kind of medical error.” From Jarry’s tone he can infer all he needs about her opinion on the ‘official’ story. If she’s not careful, she’s in danger of becoming as cynical as Chibs. “Nurse way overdosed him, shut his organs down in a matter of hours.”

Slight overkill, suggesting maybe a rush to dispose of any evidence. It means that the AB clearly don’t want anything tracing back to their hidey hole.

“I’m guessing this ‘nurse’ has _Mein Kampf_ in her library?” Tig quips, looking at Jarry.

“I tried pressing my source for info but she has no idea, most of the staff genuinely think it was just a mistake.”

Jarry despises Tully, and wants to get her teeth into him perhaps even more so than Chibs; so the fact that he has gotten away with literal murder must make her blood boil. “We’re dealing with some professionals here. They know how to cover their asses.”

“So, does this mean that Tully knows we’re looking for Juicy boy?” Chibs muses aloud, that would not be a good situation; the longer they can avoid discovery, the better.

“Not necessarily, he might just be trying to make sure nothing can be traced back to him.”

“I bet that bastard is sitting up there in prison, thinking about how bloody clever he is.” The old scot growls like an incoming squall, dark clouds forming in his face. “Maybe I should pay him a visit.”

Jarry is quick to intercept him, and put the fire out on that idea before it starts. “Don’t. You won’t get anything, and then Tully will know for sure what we’re doing if he doesn’t already.”

“And he might decide Juice is more trouble that he’s worth.” Ah, always the optimist is Tig.

But they both make a fair point, and although the mental image of stomping in that racist fucker’s face in till there’s nothing left brings him great joy, Chibs will hold back.

For now.  

Chibs gives a soft, dejected little laugh. “Wasn’t he always?”

Juice was trouble, and is troubled, he knew that from day one; the boy came apart too easily at the slightest tug, held together with thin thread.

A ragdoll in the hands of a careless child.

“Tell Venus thank you, and if she can, hurry it up.” Jarry orders, short and snappy. She does look rather attractive when she’s using her in-charge voice. Perhaps they should incorporate it into the bedroom. “We don’t have forever.”

\----

Mitch sounds paranoid.

If Tully could fault his right hand man it would be his suspicious mind; just like that Elvis song.

Of course, the world they dwell in is not a safe one, so a touch of caution in not a bad thing per say. Too much however, and you end up seeing a monster under every bed.

 “I just wanted to tell you that the flowers didn’t survive the frost.”

Tully mentally switches to code-speak in his head. This is good news, but in keeping with the act he puts on a face of disappointment. “Ah, that is a pity. Nothing left?”

“Nope, not even the roots.”

Good, good. Tully is pleased with the results, it means he can relax; this whole thing had been a rather ambitious project, but he was meticulous, and it was paying off.

Then, Mitch speaks again. “Look. Tully, for real, what are we doing with the Spic?”

“Code, you moron.” Tully barks, deeply annoyed by the lapse.

He can hear Mitch sigh.

He gets it, talking in code can grate on one’s nerves after a while, especially when you’re a straight forward kind of guy like Mitch. Tully put it down to his upbringing, the oldest of three siblings, he practically raised them like his own kids when Mama was out getting high.

He has no time for anyone’s shit.

“….how long are we going to keep the stray cat?” Mitch eventually forces out, clearly resenting it.

“Why? Did he bite you?” Tully asks, poking fun.

His sweetheart had certainly made an impression on Cole so he heard, and on Benny. The little Puerto Rican had spunk.

If only Tully could bottle that energy, that survival instinct.

“He’s a pain in the ass.” Mitch spits, Tully can hear his teeth grinding. “Maybe we should dump him back in the garbage can you found him in, we can’t feed him forever.”

Put him back? It’s too late for that. You do not simply un-discover a seam of gold, or throw back a diamond into the rough from where you uncovered it.

“Why not?” Tully asks. That reminds him, next time he calls he needs to ask if Juice is eating right; poor thing looked very skinny on his way to the gate.

“…we’re not cat people.” Mitch explains, as if this fact is quite obvious. “And cats are sneaky. I don’t trust them.”

Tully expected this, of course. In prison, it hadn’t mattered, because prison was a different world; the rules became nebulous, everything was upside down. So he could fuck a pretty little Latino as much as he wanted.

But he’s taken his pet project outside of Stockton’s walls.

To think Mitch is made edgy by Ortiz, who is half his size, and not even that good of a fighter. “He’s tame, I promise.”

Very tame, delightfully tame. Tully hasn’t had so much fun in decades; if only he could thank Jax Teller in person, god rest his soul.

“And last I checked, you weren’t the one in charge here.” He humbles Mitch, reminding him of his place. Tully is a teacher, his punishments are harsh but effective. “Almost sounds like you don’t gotta lot of faith in me, Mitchell.”

It works, Mitch backs down. “No, Tulls. I do.”

“Great. Then do as I ask.”

\---

Mitch presses the end call button, and stares at the screen for a long time. He’ll do what his boss wants, but he doesn’t have to like it.

The bar is empty at this time, only he and bartender are in. Mitch trusts him too keep his mouth shut.

He thinks maybe Tully has gone soft inside, has forgotten what it’s like to be on the front line; forgotten why he sore the oath in the first place.

Brooding to himself, Mitch orders another jack and coke.

\----

_Bark. Bark. Bark._

Juice fights against the wakening, refuses to heed the call and buries himself further into his pillows. But the dogs keep barking, hollering, trying to bring the moon down with all their noise.

He struggles to sit up; it must be late, the sun isn’t up yet.

The phone reads 3AM, it makes him angry.

_Bark. Bark. Bark. Bark._

“Alright… alright already…” Juice curses the dogs and their ancestors before them, forcing his legs into some sweats and pulling on a shirt. With heavy limbs he leaves the bedroom and opens the door to the trailer, blinking like a tired owl into the night. “I swear if this is some goddam raccoon…”

There’s a person on top of one of the rusted trucks, currently being nipped at by Sugar and Spice, who can’t quite seem to reach their prey. “HEY!” The someone yells. “Get these fucking dogs offa me!”

Although dark aside from cloudy moonlight, Juice knew who the owner was of the startled cry. The person in question didn’t pronounce his Ts, a lazy talker almost, and words like ‘well’ for some reason became ‘woll’ coming out of his mouth. Only one person spoke like that.

Only Raz was from Utah.

“Raz? What the shit?” Juice asked, again accidentally reminding himself of his old buddy Half-Sack; who seemed to be persistently haunting him lately.

Raz scooted further away from the snapping jaws, clutching the backpack he had with him for dear life, as if it contained his heart and lungs. “Do _something_!”

Juice tries to call Sugar and Spice to heel. “Hey! Hey, quit it!”

But they may as well be deaf, as they ignore him completely; seeming to be dead set on getting a piece of Raz to chew on tonight.

\----

_“He’s foaming at the mouth!”_

\----

“Very affective!” The cornered man gripes, then yelps as Sugar gets a little too close, her nose brushes against his sneaker. “Call Harry!”

Juice nods, and fumbles with his phone, finding the number for the man in question and dialling as fast as he could. After a few rings, a tired grumble answers. “...who did you kill?”

“Nobody.” Juice assured, edging nearer to panic as Sugar and Spice whip themselves up into a freshly energised frenzy when Raz almost slides off of the truck. “-but the dogs are about to eat Raz.”

Only a beat of sulky silence follows. “I’m going back to sleep.”

“No!” Juice begs. “Look they’re going crazy, please! They won’t listen.”

“... You owe me a copious amount of favours for this.”

It takes him fifteen minutes to arrive, but it feels like an hour.

He strolls up to stand up Juice, watching the commotion in front of him like it’s a free show.

Juice stares at Harry’s feet. “Are you wearing flip flops?”

“It’s too early for decent footwear.” Harry put two fingers into his mouth and whistles, immediately both Sugar and Spice halt their attack and go to sit at attention by Harry’s feet.

Juice gaped at the dogs. “Are you _kidding_ me?” 

“Oh Jesus almighty…” Raz falls back onto the roof of the truck, his chest rising up and down quickly with his rapid intake of breath. His relief is enormous. “Thanks, dude.”

Harry shakes his head, he cannot believe the idiocy. “Get down from there.”

Raz takes a jump from the truck, landing awkwardly, and losing his backpack; it slips from his shoulder and lands with a surprisingly heavy thud onto the ground.

Its contents have been cast about, and before Raz could retrieve any of it, Harry shines his spotlight over what has fallen.

Several handguns, one or two rifles, and a few smaller, nasty looking electric tasers; the very illegal kind.

Juice recognises a M16 from the shipment hidden in the barn. What is Raz doing with all this stuff? And why is he here in the middle of the night?

When Juice puts two and two together, he feels a great sympathy for Raz; it’s no fun being caught in the act.

\----

_“I can explain.”_

\----

Raz makes a strangled noise from the back of his throat, Harry is motionless, keeping the yellow beam like an incriminating eye fixed over the hoard. “Well.” He says. “Looksie here.”


	12. Sing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Venus and Tig are OTP for real, guys. 
> 
> WARNINGS mentions of and implied child abuse.

“You’ve supremely fucked up this time Lazarus.”

Juice can see Raz’s brain desperately working, the little hamster running as fast as it can in its little wheel in the young man’s head.

“I-I know this looks bad, dude-” Raz stutters.

Bad does not even begin to cover it.

Harry seizes him by the collar of his black hoodie (This must be his ‘stealing stuff’ attire) and shoves him so hard into the door of the rusted truck it’s a wonder Raz’s back does not break. “Shut your _mouth_.”

Juice watches as Harry wallops him with a powerful right hook, then kicks Raz in the midsection when he tumbles into the dirt; squealing like a pig.

“You sneaking, lying sack of pus.”

Kick. Kick. Kick.

Each time his foot lands, Juice winces; he’s been beaten up every which way before, he knows what’s happening in painful detail. Bruising, the breaking of skin, the cracking of ribs.

“You gonna shoot me?” Raz croaks, curling inward to try and protect his organs.

Why doesn’t he get up? Juice knows.

Juice didn’t fight back when Chibs beat him down in the garage; he thinks he deserves it, if not for stealing, then for being caught at it.

Juice is made more and more unsettled by this as the minutes tick on.

“No, what I have in mind hurts more.” Harry looks to Juice, who is standing apart from all this. “Jules, pick up one of the tasers-” He says. “The big one.”

Juice casts a glance over the weapons laying haphazardly at his feet, and he finds a large, very mean looking taser half hidden under the M16. He handles it with care, as if it might come alive and zap him.

He has already sussed out Harry’s intentions, but still, he asks “What now?”

“Set it to max.”

Juice switches the thing on, and it buzzes, a blue flicker sparks across the metal prongs; all he has to do is press the red button on the side to release the charge.

“Now, fry the vermin.” Harry commands, he forces Raz onto his knees and yanks back his head by gripping his hair, exposing his white neck.

Juice takes one step closer, Raz squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the incoming shock; he’s shaking like a leaf in the wind.

Juice hesitates. “Why do you care? You’re not in the brotherhood.” The question is directed at Harry.

“No one steals from under my nose.” Harry snarls. “I still got a job to do here, skinhead or not.” Juice has never seen Harry so enraged; he is rather scary. Tully has never been visibly angry in front of Juice, he always maintains a zen calm, which is even more disturbing. “They find out someone was dipping into their supply on my watch? I may as well hang myself from the barn door.” “

Why is the world determined to tear open old wounds today? Juice now feels the cold chains against his neck, and the terror of breathlessness as he took the jump.

\---

_“You ratted. And then you took a cowardly swing from a tree.”_

\---

“So _cook_ him, Jules.”

Juice tries to get his breathing in order, in, out, in and out; he remembers a few nights ago in the barn, with Raz firing bullets at him while he was tied to a tractor.

He takes another step, his hand isn’t steady.

“Go on.”

He’s inches away now, all Juice has to do is lean in and do it. Raz won’t die, but it’ll hurt like a motherfucker.

He understands what Miles was feeling that time at the warehouse, the rage, the confusion, and the betrayal. If only he had let Juice explain and not pull out the gun.

It would have been different.

“No.” Juice switches off the taser, rendering it harmless. “I can’t.”

Harry misunderstands, thinking his hesitance is through squeamishness. He holds out his hand. “Give it to me, then.”

“No- I want to know why he did it.” Juice says, looking down at a wide eyed Raz.

“ _What?_ This isn’t a fucking episode of Jerry Springer-” Harry cries in disbelief.

Raz turns his head to look at Harry with a furrowed brow. “You watch Jerry Springer?”

“I swear to god if he’s not _sizzling_ in the next three god damn seconds-”

Juice’s patience, already on a thin, fine thread, snaps. “Shut up, Harry!”

The dogs whine, not used to Juice raising his voice.

Both men fall silent, and Juice is surprised by his own power; perhaps a little giddy with it too.

Once again, he turns his attention to Raz.  “Tell me why.”

Raz considers his options, to come clean or be electrocuted. Not being a masochist, he goes with the former.

“I needed the money.” He begins, looking sheepish. “I can sell this stuff for a couple of grand, easy, all cash. Nothing traceable.”

Juice crosses his arms. “Money for what?”

Raz doesn’t answer, and Harry (who has now decided he wants in on this plan) gives him a shake. “Answer the man.”

Raz sighs, looking away. “My brothers and sisters.” He confesses. “I send them money every month.”

Well, it’s not what Juice was expecting. He thought it would be a drug habit, or to pay off a loan shark.  “Why?” Juice questions. Something like that.

Raz looks uncomfortable. “So they can leave home.”

Juice should stop there, stop before he uncovers the rest of the bones.

“Why do they need to leave?” he asks, more cautious about it.

“….my dad.”

\----

_“My old man used to rape me. Just sayin’”_

\----

There are some things, once found, we desperately wish we could hide. But when these terrible learnings have been let out they can never be contained again; they taint the world, adding a little bit of tarnish to what would be a perfect day.

The knowledge that these things exist creep up on us when we least expect it, and laugh about the discomfort they cause.

“I left when I was sixteen, I couldn’t take any of them with me.” Raz goes on, without being prompted. “They were too little.”

“My god.” Harry mutters. “This _is_ an episode of Jerry Springer.”

Juice ignores him, focusing in on Raz. “There’s no one in… Utah that can help them?”

“My dad is a big man in our home town.” The young man is unloading a heavy burden, he is ashamed by it, tormented. “I tried to tell my Sunday school teacher what was going on, all she did was run to the elders. They then told my dad.”

Juice is puzzled. “Elders? Did you live in a lord of the rings book?”

Raz glanced up, his eyes are wet. “No, we’re Mormons.”

Oh. That’s… interesting.

Juice still has some more questions. “If you’re a Christian, why are you in a neo-Nazi gang?” Juice himself was raised catholic, so he knows what’s in the bible about how you are to treat your fellow man.

Not that he’s ever followed it.

“Don’t the two things conflict?”

“Brand picked me up when I got out of Juvie. I had nothing, couldn’t even flip burgers for a living.” A homeless kid just trying to survive, a perfect mark.

What was it that Harry said?

\----

_“Got to indoctrinate them before the synapses have finished growing.”_

\----

Got to indoctrinate them when they have no place else to go.

“Don’t you get paid already for watching the guns?” Juice inquires, he must get something for it.

“Yeah but… I thought if I got more they’d be better off.” Raz mutters.

Its then, in that moment, Juice sees Raz for who he is.

He’s the weak one.

Sure Tonto and Diesel are the youngest in age, but Raz possesses a frailty in his character which makes him a liability. He _cares_ , and that’s dangerous.

He’s already gotten a black spot on him for that incident with the guns, and now this? Juice has never witnessed such a quick downward spiral of bad choices apart from his own. The AB certainly wouldn’t miss this one.

The faulty link in the chain; put on pressure, and it gives. 

There is nothing for him to feel but pity. He’s been there before.

 “So, they’ve got no one?” Juice presses, becoming anxious over the fates of some kids he hasn’t even met. “Your siblings?”

“They’ve got me!” Raz cries, insulted by the insinuation, then he deflates. “I just… can’t help them without money. Eventually they’ve have enough to all run away.”

It’s not perhaps the worst plan Juice has ever heard of (not as stupid as stealing crack from the cartel anyway) but it’s still full of holes.

“It’s times like these I wish I hadn’t sold my miniature violin.” Harry quips.

“Would you stop being an asshole for a second?!” Juice snaps, Harry’s lackadaisical attitude to this is grating on his very last nerve. “You got any proof this sob story is real, Raz?”

“My wallet.” He says suddenly. “Check out the picture inside. Please.”

Juice hates digging inside another man’s pockets, but he uncovers a little black wallet and flips it open. Just like Raz said, there is a photo inside.

It’s old, crumbled, and judging from the torn edge it’s been ripped. The picture is of six kids of various ages, all dressed like miniature adults; knee length dresses and ties with suits. It would be cute, if not for what Juice knows is hiding behind the picturesque little snapshot. Juice spots the tallest boy, and its Raz alright, with longer hair, pimples, and no tattoos.

A hand, too big to be a woman’s holds a middling sized girl by the shoulder. The rest of the man’s body is missing due to the tear.

“Let him go.”

Harry takes his time to comply, scowling, and Juice flirts with the idea of threatening to zap him with the taser.

Eventually he does, but is clearly not happy about it. “What now, mother Teresa?”

Raz sits up, staring at Juice with a pleading expression, his fate in Juice’s hands. 

“I hope you enjoyed your fun while it lasted.” Says Juice, then he shoves the weapons back into Raz’s back pack before handing it to him. “You’re gonna get rid of these. I don’t care how.” 

Raz holds his loot to his chest, and nods like a dumb bobble head.

“I want reparations.” Says Harry, pacing back and forth like a caged lion. “I won’t kill him. Or even permanently damage him.”

Raz looks fearful. Poor kid.

Juice sighs, there aren’t a lot of options here, Harry will be impossible to live with if Juice doesn’t let him do this and he seems like the kind of man you really do not want to be on be wrong side off.

He shoots a sympathetic glance in Raz’s direction, before turning sideways she he doesn’t have to see.  “Quick then.”

He can hear Harry move.

The snap is followed by a muffled cry, Raz takes it with great dignity, but Juice is disturbed by Harry’s efficiency. He only ever saw such a skill in Happy.

Sugar barks, twice.

Harry taps Raz with his foot. “Tell me, how did you hurt your wrist?”

Between gasps, Raz manages to force out: “T-Took a spill from my bike.”

Harry is satisfied. “Arise, Lazarus.”

The young man gets up with some difficulty, Juice thinks he would add insult to injury if he tried to help. “F-Funny guy…”

“Be thankful. Now scat.”

Raz scats, holding his arm like a broken wing, he shuffles away into the darkness.

The pair of men are left standing in quietude, absorbing all that they’ve learned tonight.

“…do you believe in god?” Juice asks Harry.

Harry glares at him for a long, sour moment. “Bite me. Oh, and keep that taser, it looks good on you.”

\-----

“I think we’re lost.”

“How?! I followed the computer lady’s instructions perfectly!” Tig is not ‘with it’ when it comes to technology.

“It’s called a SATNAV, Alexander.”  Venus explains, exasperation in her voice.

“Get off my back when I’m driving, woman!” Tig says, turning around a corner.  

The cars pulls alongside a small tobacco shop. A kid who can’t be any older than sixteen skulks out and shoves something in his jacket pocket before scurrying away; checking over his shoulder every so often.

“There’s the place.” Venus taps the window with a bright red fingernail.

“Nice, ah well-” Tig parks and switches off the engine. “Stay in the car, beautiful, this could get a little messy.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll come and save you if you need help.” Venus says, smirking, she’s incredibly beautiful today.

“No need, got Jarry parked up ready to pounce and Chibs is probably sitting by the phone in his slippers waiting for something to go wrong. He’s an anxious old biddy.” Tig titters to himself at the mental image.

“You’re one to talk, Tiger. You with your hot coco every night.” She loves to tease his fragile male ego.

“Its _Irish_ hot coco, Venus, helps me sleep.” Tig pulls up his shirt sleeve to exposed a swastika, painted on by Happy a few hours ago; it has since dried and appears very real indeed. “How does this look?”

Venus wrinkles her nose, although she too knows it will come off with a good scrub with soap and water. “Offensive, ghastly, in poor taste?

Tig beams. “Great.” He unbuckles his seat belt, puts on a baseball cap and kisses his old lady on the cheek. “Love ya.”

While he crosses the street to Burnham Smoke Shop, he inhabits the role of a racist scumbag; he takes out a wad of gum, throws the wrapper on the ground and starts to chew.

The bell above the door jingles when he enters.

Mr Burnham is a balding guy in his mid-forties, wearing a Guns N’ Roses short sleeved t-Shirt with his ink proudly on show; iron crosses, more swastikas, and barbed wire. A real tough guy.

He’s sitting on a chair behind the glass and wood counter, reading a magazine. Snuff boxes, pipes and other accessories of lung cancer sit on a bed of green velvet.

When he sees Tig, he tenses somewhat. He’s not one of his usual costumers. “Help you with somethin’?’”

“Yeah…” Tig causally leans onto the counter, making sure that his arm tat is on full view.  “I was looking for _something_ in particular.” He hopes Mr Burnham is smart enough to pick up the hint, maybe of these neo-Nazis seem to be lacking in the intelligence department. “Do I qualify for a discount?”

Burnham chuckles, leaves his seat, and quickly flips over his shop sign to SORRY WE’RE CLOSED.

For half a second, Tig thinks he might have fucked this up before it even began.

“Sure do, brother.” Burnham checks the street before going back to his place behind the counter and picking up a pair of keys from a concealed drawer. They probably go into a safe or a lock box. “What’s your taste? I got some new items ready to go.”

Tig is repulsed by everything this lowlife stands for, but he forces himself to pretend to be his buddy for the time being.

“Quite like German engineering.” Tig chews his gum and idly glances over some of the items in the shop.  “I had a real nice Walter PP back in the day, pigs confiscated off me when I went down for the second time. Got anything like that?”

Burnham shakes his head. “Shame, I had one of those in, but I sold it to some beard looking for an anniversary gift for her old man.”

“That is a pity.” Tig agrees, then, his phone hums a cheery little tune. “Sorry, gotta take it.”

“Orders?” Burnham asks.

“Boss busting my ass, as always man.” The two men share a quiet joke to themselves before Tig puts the phone to his ear. “Uh-huh.” Burham briefly goes back to his magazine while Tig is occupied.

Tig eyes him. “…I’d say go ahead.”

Jarry’s timing is downright theatrical. She almost breaks the door. “Police, keep your hands on the counter.”

Burnham looks ready to jump out of his skin. “What the hell?!”

Jarry is around him in a blink, cuffing his hands with such swiftness and strength that Tig _finally_ gets what it is Chibs sees in her. She must be one while ride.

“Martin Burnham, you’re under arrest for selling firearms without a valid licence-” She forces him over the counter, slamming his nose into the glass. "-and selling tobacco to minors.”

“You can’t prove that!” Burnham’s words come out odd, as his lips are being squashed against the counter top.

Tig puts his phone away and saunters over. “Now, do you want to take that chance?”

“This is police brutality!” He tries to get free, but Jarry has an impressive grip, and she’s about as movable as a mountain.

“No, _this_ would be brutality.” Tig gestures for Jarry’s baton and with a small smile, she tosses it to him; it could be that they’re warming up to each other. Tig smashes a glass cabinet, and swipes a collection of expensive looking snuff boxes onto the floor. “Whoopsie.”

After a few more hundred dollars’ worth of damage is committed, Burham finally decides to do something about it. “Fine! What do you fucking want?!

“Give us the name of the woman you sold the handgun too.” Jarry instructs, clear and concise.

Burnham scoffs. “Like hell I will.”

“Oh good.” Tig enjoys breaking things, ever since SAMCRO has become a good boy’s club he’s had a primordial itch that hasn’t been scratched.

However, it soon becomes apparent they need to try a different tactic. Burnham isn’t budging on the name. “I aint a rat, I ain’t telling you nothing.”

“This isn’t working.” Jarry observes. “Try something else.” She pauses. “Within reason.”

“Hm. You’re right.” Tig might struggle with these new touch screen gadgets from time to time, but texting he can do; even if emoji’s leave him baffled and not to mention annoyed.

Tig winks at Jarry. “And now, we wait.”

Venus floats into the wrecked shop like a swan, and elegantly steps over the carpet of broken glass “I’m here.”

Burham stares. “What the hell is that?”

Tig smacks the man in the back of the head with the baton. “I’m sorry, what did you _say_?”

“Enough, Alexander.” Venus gently shoos him away, she smiles at Burnham. “My friends and I are terribly sorry to inconvenience you like this, sugar.” She purrs. “And we’ll happily get on our merry way… as soon as we get the name.”

“Get lost, tranny.” Burnham spits.

“Oh dear.” Venus sounds regretful, and through some method of subtle communication, gets Jarry to release her hold and let the man slip into the chair behind the counter. Venus towers over him, and drops her long, red coat to the floor.

She’s wearing a revealing little number, a tight, deep ruby dress that is cut very low so that her bosom is almost exploding from her chest. Many rings glitter on her fingers,

Jarry stands back, not sure what’s going to happen next. Tig discreetly takes out his phone and sets it to take pictures.

“I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to this, sugar.” Venus touches up her lipstick, then sits astride a terrified looking Burnham. Her weight causes him to grunt. “Smile.”

She kisses his neck and strokes his face with one of her hands, with Burnham unable to move as he cannot fathom what on earth is going on right now. Within a minute or so Tig has taken the photos and Venus dismounts.

Her lips have left a red smudge on his neck.

“Now that is a pretty picture, you two make one fine couple.” Tig gloats, showing the photos to Jarry; she nods approvingly. Then, he starts to press some buttons. “Hmm… send to all contacts, why not?”

“Don’t!” Burnham begs.

“Name, Sugar.” Venus sits herself on the edge of the counter, crossing her legs and looking upon the man with her face alight with playful mischief. “Or that photo hits front page news of the Hitler Times.”

“Just one more button.” Tig raises his finger and ever so slowly starts to bring it down towards the screen. This is the most fun he’s had in weeks.

Burnham can’t take it anymore, so he cracks. “Wait! It’s… Georgina Higgins.”

“Good.” Venus praises, Jarry begins to scribble the name in her notebook. “And the address?”

 The address is soon forth coming, it’s in a quite an affluent neighbourhood, but one not too far away.

“Well now, it’s been a pleasure, sugar.” Venus blows a sweet kiss to Burnham before bending down to retrieve her coat.

“Allow me, beautiful.” Tenderly, Tig helps Venus into it and then takes her arm, he looks like the most in love man in all the world.

Jarry holds the door for them, she can’t help but grin. Today has been strange, but successful, she’ll have to make a call to Phillip with the new info.

 “Hey! What about the cuffs?!” Burnham shrills as they go.

Jarry stops, and considers him. “You can keep them.” She says, shutting the door behind her.


	13. Night’s decay

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Am I insinuating that Jax is in hell?
> 
> err...maybe XD

Popping pills is surprisingly easy.

He gets why overworked moms and stressed out college students get addicted, when life is escaping your grip, all you have to do is swallow down some prescribed happiness.

Then you forget about it. 

Juice knows he’s had a few too many this afternoon, but the encounter with Raz a few nights before has made his thoughts squirm and writhe like unsettled worms.

Not to mention he hasn’t slept in… well, months it would be. He wonders how long a human can survive being sleep deprived.

He helped Harry out with some chores as a means to distract himself, and went on a run with the dogs, which worked at the time; but now he’s alone again.

\----

_“I’m not good on my own.”_

\----

Riding the buzz is a bit like gliding on the wind, there is not a lot of effort required, you just go where it takes it.

In the midst of his purple haze Juice stumbles to the bathroom, needing a piss.

When he’s finished he clutches at the sink and blinks at himself in the mirror. His hair is blonde, his eyes a cold blue.

“Again, Juice?”

Somehow, Jax’s breath is clouding the other side of the mirror. Instead if unbearable heat, this time, there is a terrible cold chill emitting from the glass. The edges begin to crust over with ice.

An impossible phenomenon in the Navada desert.

“I didn’t mean to call you, man.” Juice says, and he didn’t, he really didn’t.

Jax sighs, and white breath rushes from his mouth like the breath of a dragon. “Well I’m here now, you must want to talk about something.”

Juice nods, trying to think why it is he has unconsciously summoned his dead Prez.

He does have one question on his mind.

“Why, man?” He whispers, becoming despondent suddenly, and the tears soon follow. “Why, me?”

“Because you make yourself up as a target.” Jax says, as if Juice should already know this. “In those animal planet documentaries you watch? What’s the first rule of survival?”

Juice rubs his eyes on his arm. “Kill things?”

“Kill all the things, before they kill you.” Jax’s skin is so thin and pale that his veins pop out like rivers on a snow scape. “It’s a nasty world. Sharks smell blood, lions go after the weakest one in the herd.”

Well, Jax would know, he has used these techniques before. He exploited Juice’s desperation to be accepted back into the arms of the club; never intending to let him live long enough to really earn his way back.

“Just act like nothing’s wrong, and they won’t bite.”

Juice tried that, but he never was a good liar. “But there is something wrong…” Juice insists, begging Jax to understand. “Something’s really wrong.”

“But they don’t know that.” Jax counters, and he feels so close that Juice almost reaches out to try and touch him. “And if any of them get close enough to see...”

Jax scratches his neck, a few icy crystals that had begun to settle in his goatee come loose. “What are those big snakes called? The ones that can swallow a man whole?” he asks.

Juice thinks, but it’s hard when he’s high like this. “Boa constrictors?”

“Yeah. Just squeeze the life out of them, watch them suffocate.” Jax grins. “You’ve done it before, it should be easy the next time.”

Someone opens the door to the trailer, and a voice calls in. “Jules? You in here?”

It’s Harry.

Juice flees the bathroom, leaving Jax behind and tries to look as casual as possible; as if he weren’t just talking to a dead man.

“Wassup?”

He obviously fails, as Harry gives him an odd look. “Jesus, you’re strung out.”

No point in hiding it now, Juice gives the other man a half-goofy smile. Sitting at the tiny kitchen table. “You betcha, Snufflekins.”

Harry glares. 

“Yo, Jules.” Raz enters, and Juice sits up. There’s nothing about the young man that suggests anything has changed, that he feels uneasy around Harry and Juice; the only evidence from his attempted theft is a blue cast on his left arm.

He obviously forgives, or thinks he understands.

It’s too easy, much too easy.

Guilt needles Juice, although he knew it could have been worse.

“Hey man.” He greets Raz, eyeing his injury. “How’s the arm?”

“S’okay, just dislocated.” He shrugs, like it’s nothing. He jabs his thumb (the one of his good hand) in Harry’s direction. “This queer was worried about you, haven’t seen you all day.”

Harry looked tired. “We’ve discussed this, Lazarus, showing concern for a fellow human being does not constitute a homosexual.”

So. They’ve made amends.

The fact Harry has flat out just admitted that he has any concern over Juice’s well being is downright touching, and Juice feels himself smile on the inside. Even if Harry is still a complete asshole.

It’s nice to know someone has his back out here.

Someone that isn’t Tully.

“Yeah, whatever.” Raz cackles.

“Speaking of queer, I did have my finger in a guy’s ass once.” Juice adds, thinking about that very awkward afternoon he spent with Cameron.  They never could hold eye contact again after that incident.

At the silence Juice realises perhaps that isn’t something he should have said out loud; maybe he should wait till he comes down from these pills before talking.

“…what kind of MC were you in exactly?” Harry questions, suspiciously.

Juice is about to answer when Raz butts in.  “MC?”

“Motorcycle club.” Juice elaborates, the Harry gives him a very disappointed look and he regrets opening his mouth at all today. “Ah shit…”

Raz almost leaps to his feet. “You were in a motorcycle club?!”

\-----

Elk Grove was an hour drive from Charming, and in the growing heat of late spring it would have been uncomfortable without air conditioning.

It was a typical inner state metropolis, drowning in chain restaurants, mothers in yoga pants and brightly coloured plastic. The directions took her to the slightly more affluent suburbs, and to a house with a bleached white driveway and rose bushes growing out front. It sat on the very corner, under the watchful gaze of a black streetlight.

Jarry used her hat as an impromptu fan while standing on the threshold, knocking only once but loudly enough so that anyone inside would be sure to hear her.

She stands for two minutes before the door opens. This must be Higgins’ wife, a woman who would have been quite a beauty twenty years ago, but since then she’s had a nose job and one too many face lifts; her hair is dyed an unnatural bombshell blonde.

“Hello?” Mrs Higgins notes Jarry’s uniform and frowns. “May I help you?”

Jarry uses her best ‘friendly neighbourhood cop’ smile.

“Hello Ma’am, I’m officer Jarry with your local police department, and I wanted to inform you that there’s been a string of break-ins in the neighbourhood.” She says with an approachable but formal tone.

“Oh my, really?” Mrs Higgins seems quite surprised and alarmed. “I hadn’t heard anything about it.”

“No Ma’am, we didn’t want to cause an unnecessary panic-” Jarry goes on, smoothly, perhaps she should quit being a cop and become an actress. “We’re going around to make sure everyone is safe. Do you lock your doors at night?”

“Of course!” Mrs Higgins exclaims. “We have a lot of valuable items in the house, I wouldn’t dream of leaving the front door wide open.”

“Would it be alright if I came in to inspect your alarm system? Do you have one?”

It’s downright scary how much trust people put in the uniform. Using it in this way should prove her lack or moral fibre of the job, but Jarry knows she isn’t the first cop to use their badge to acquire something more than justice.

“Oh, well, of course.” Mrs Higgin sweeps a blonde curl behind her ear and shows Jarry in. “We only use the alarm when we’re away on vacation, besides that we lock all the doors.”

She leads Jarry through to a spacious kitchen with granite counter tops, everything is sleek and modern in stainless steel. Very nice indeed; clearly the Aryan Brotherhood pays well.

A white, long furred cat trots over and presses its face against Jarry’s pants leg. She regards it with a cautious look, she’s not really a pet person in general.

In order to win points with Mrs Higgins, Jarry forces herself to pet the thing. It rumbles under her finger tips like a tiny engine.

“What about your upstairs windows?” She asks, brushing the white hairs from her knee.

“Oh-” The ex prom queen looks worried. “They don’t lock, do you think that’ll be a problem?”

Jarry shakes her head. “I shouldn’t think so. The residents who had things stolen all had faulty front door locks or left out a spare key.”

“We don’t do that.” Mrs Higgins replies. “Heaven knows Darryl is too paranoid.”

He would be.

Jarry perks up. “Is that your husband?”

Mrs Higgins sighs, annoyed at no longer being the centre of attention, and waves towards a few portraits on the walls.

Darryl doesn’t look like a typical AB thug, plump, and ordinary looking; red around the nose which indicated a love of beer. Jarry couldn’t see any AB ink, although Mr Higgins was wearing a long sleeved T-Shirt in all of these photos; perhaps that had been deliberate.

After all, it could be awkward to explain to polite company why your husband was brandishing Hitler’s face on his right bicep.

“That’s him.” says Mrs Higgins, glancing briefly at the collage of pictures.

“How often as you both out of the house?” Jarry hopes this woman doesn’t smell a rat, she should wrap this up soon before she arouses suspicion.

Mrs Higgins toys with some pearls around her neck, bored. “Well I used to sell insurance but I’ve retired. I’m home all day with Pandora, Darryl owns a property company. I go out with the girls on Thursdays...”

Today was Monday, which meant that three days from now ‘Darryl’ would be alone in the house. It didn’t leave them much time to prepare, but they’d better act swiftly while the AB’s knowledge of their sniffing around was minimal.

Though, knowing Tully, he would have eyes everywhere.

The man had a mass of slimy black tentacles that reached out from his cell and extended across California and beyond. They listened, and whispered back into his ear the secrets they had found.

“I see, does your husband go out in the evenings?” Jarry probed.

“No, no, he’s usually too tired from work.” There was a flicker of marital discourse in that sentence, but as soon as it appeared it was gone again.

Mrs Higgin’s then becomes flustered. “Oh I completely forgot to offer you a drink-”

Jarry put her hand up to pause the housewife in her tracks. As much as a cool lemonade would be welcome right now, lingering here would only encourage trouble. What if her husband came home?  “Thank you ma’am, but I won’t impose on you any longer.”

Mr Higgins picked up Pandora, and draped her across her shoulders as if the cat were a silk scarf. “Well, let me show you out, officer.”

Jarry completed her performance with a cheery wave over his shoulder as she walked back down the house’s driveway towards her car. Her cheeks were beginning to sting from the effort, she really could never have been a community cop. “Bye now, keep safe.”

Mrs Higgins waved back, before delicately closing the door behind her.

Jarry’s façade fell away, along with the fake grin and she stalked back to her vehicle with urgency. So they now had the man who’d bought the gun who’d shot the bus driver; and they knew that the upstairs windows to his fancy house paid for by the blood of uncountable victims were unlocked.

Perfect.

If Chibs, Venus and the Sheep botherer (Chibs had told her that story when he’d had one too many bourbons) were going to break in, they needed to be quick about it.

Jarry had just gotten the call to pack the investigation into a box, the plug was being pulled.

Well.

She was determined not to let it go that easily.

\----

Diesel was out of the hospital.

Like Raz, his wounded arm had been immobilised in a cast, and was ordered to take things slowly as his body recovered. Clearly whoever had given him that advice did not know the kid; keeping still for more than a minute was a herculean task for the teenager.

He probably came out of the womb bouncing off the walls.

He also seemed to have the words largest collection of flame patterned shirts; maybe once he had inspirations to acquire the nickname ‘Blaise’. Sadly it had not come to fruition.

The first time Juice and Diesel saw each other again after the accident, the kid nearly broke his own jaw with his constant chatter. “Oh man I wish they’d let me keep the bullet- that would have been so cool, is this gonna scar? I hope so. I thought they’d give me a metal lung or something so I’d be like a cyborg-”

Even worse for Juice, Diesel had been put on ‘light duties’ since he the most he could do was hobble around; and talk of course. So naturally the kid was relegated to the position of quote un quote body guard for Juice.

Not that he was capable of any actual guarding, a stiff breeze could knock the kid onto his back in this condition and when at full health he only came up to Juice’s shoulder. It was obvious that Juice was the one watching Diesel, making sure he didn’t damage or lose any more body parts.

Wonderful.

Now, Juice had himself two spare shadows.

The second was Tonto, who, for his own reasons, had latched onto Juice around the same time that Flash junior was set free from the hospital. The pair of them tagged along on Juice’s heels, and along with the dogs, made up quite a bizarre entourage.

When he asks why exactly they weren’t in school, Diesel gleefully enlightens him. “I set fire to stuff! And punched people! So they told me to leave.”

Tonto only shrugged.

Juice was anxious. He was barely capable of keeping a houseplant alive (the dogs had been a significant step up in responsibility), how exactly was he meant to keep track of two smaller humans while keeping himself just off the brink of a complete mental breakdown?

Harry’s solution was a TV, and some DVDs purchased for a few cents at a yard sale. How Harry found the time to visit a yard sale was not in Juice’s ability to comprehend; it was weird thinking the guy left the property to do normal people things.

What’s more, he seemed to be softening to Juice’s presence, this latest gift a testament to their mutual acceptance of each other. Though Juice was hesitant to push the bounds any further.

At first, choice of viewing caused what was a ridiculous amount of teenager bickering; complete with a wide vocabulary of swears Juice shouldn’t think anyone under eighteen should be using.

It goes on until Juice puts his foot down.

“Right! That’s it!” He snatches the box of _The Godfather_ out of their sweaty pubescent fingers. “We’re gonna watch _Titanic_ and you’re going to sit down and like it!”

Juice had never seen that movie before, and he pretended that the few sniffles that escaped him at the end were the result of hay fever.

Watching _Blade Runner_ is less emotional, and Juice had always kept a soft spot for sci-fi. The escapism and nerdiness is good for his soul.

Tonto is munching quietly on some chips, occasionally dropping some on the floor to be picked up by the dogs; Juice’s face twitches, he’ll need to vacuum later.

Again.

Juice notices Diesel seems less intense than normal, able to focus on the small screen (it was a primitive, boxy television that Harry had no doubt pulled out of a dumpster somewhere) without yapping and fidgeting.

“its cause’ he’s had his zombie pills.” Tonto says with his mouth full.

Juice remembered Harry giving the teen some sort of meds. His lips go thin. “What kind of zombie pills?”

“Ones that make his brain work normal.” Tonto began to lick the salt from his fingers.

The sounds were making Juice cringe.

“His dad flushes the pills the doctor gave him… so he just buys them from Harry.”

Juice blinked. Looking down at the kid sitting with his legs crossed in front of him. Why did that sound familiar?

\----

_“Oh yeah, my boy has that-” pipes up a dude with acne scars. “All over the fucking place, throws shit sometimes. Doc gave us these pills but I flushed them, my boy doesn’t need drugs.”_

\---

Oh.

It was true what Harry said then, the AB truly is a family business.

What kind of crazy world was he inhabiting that a teenager was left to medicate _himself?_

He thought Harry was giving drugs to a teenager… he is, but not in a sinister fashion.

Sugar and Spice stir and go to the door, wanting out to go to the bathroom. Juice rises and leaves the kids to the movie, he’ll catch up in a minute.

He lets the dogs outside, and seems Harry strolling up, hands in his pockets; his oaken hair tumbling down his face.

Juice’s hair is also coming in, it now almost completely covers his head tats. They both could use a trip to the barbers.

“Hey there.”

Harry gives Juice a slight nod. “Hey.”

Juice regards him for a solid minute, not talking, not asking questions, just assessing.

He can’t put one colour to Harry, can’t place him into one box of good or bad. Like Juice himself, he’s incredibly, tragically, confusingly complex.

“What?” Harry grumbles, not liking being stared at like a butterfly in a jar.

Juice covers the awkward moment with a spontaneous offer. “You want to come in? We’re watching Blade runner.”

He’s not actually certain the trailer will fit that many people, it’s already pretty cramped with Juice, the boys and the dogs. How do rednecks do it? That’s what he wants to know.

Harry snorts. “I’d rather eat my own tongue.” And he marches off again, leaving Juice feeling foolish in his wake.

But, Juice knows something about him now, and he smirks to himself as he watches the man go. 

 _Yeah, yeah._ He thinks as he goes back inside. _Walk on, tough guy, your secret is safe with me._


	14. Ushers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Juice isn't in this chapter whoops.

“Where the fuck is the vermin with those parts?”

Tig paces the yard like a tiger caged for years with nothing better to do. Bessie lies in the shade of a few stacked crates; her long tongue comically hanging out to one side. She’s a simple creature, but incredibly lovable; never had she so much as growled at anyone since Tig had rescued her.

“Getting worried, Tigger?” Chibs teases. As much as they bicker, Rat and Tig have formed a quasi-father son bond over the last few months. Perhaps Jax was onto something when he paired them up that one time.

\----

_“You and Rat. Totally father and son.”_

\---

Venus certainly has taken the scrawny, ratty young man under her well perfumed wing; and Rat seems to appreciate it. What little they know about the vermin’s upbringing hasn’t exactly been sparkling.

The usual broken home shtick; absentee parent, and the other who stayed behind? They covered up their pain of abandonment with whatever substance was readily available. They’ve heard this story a dozen times over, it doesn’t get any less depressing.

“No, but we can’t start on those new orders till he gets his hairy ass down here.” Tig growls, checking his watch again.

He has a point.

Rat was supposed to meet them at the yard nearly thirty minutes ago, and although the guy doesn’t watch the clock it’s not like him to be late.

Since the ice cream shop doesn’t have sufficient room to run their restoration business SAMCRO had hired out a place elsewhere in Charming. Finding a commercial space with an office and enough room attached had been a nightmare, not to mention costly; it was only now they were starting to turn a profit as opposed to barely staying afloat.

The temptation to get back into drugs and guns was always there, but Chibs wasn’t going back to the days of counting the bodies, and wondering who was going to stab you in the back next.

Maybe if they’d done this sooner, they wouldn’t have lost so many friends; and Juice wouldn’t be in the situation he’s in now.

But Chibs is working to make that right, no matter how many stones they have to upturn; they’ll find Juicey boy.

Tig and Chibs are planning to pay Higgins a little visit tomorrow night, see what info they can squeeze out of him.

Rat arrives thirty five minutes late. The van he’s driving creaks up to TELFORD RESTORATIONS and grinds to a halt. Rat almost falls from the driver’s side and looks like absolute hell. His nose is dripping blood down his overalls.

 “What the fuck…?” Chibs’ words trail off into the air as Tig rushes over and supports Rat as he limps, clearly hurt and roughed up, over to their Prez.

Chibs sighs, so much for peace and quiet. “What happened to you, boy?” He asks.

Rat scowls and spits some red stained salvia into the dirt. “I got jumped.” He says, hoarse. “Fucking Mayans.”

Tig and Chibs look at each other in alarm.

Mayans? They haven’t had any beef with Alverez in a while now, and he’s aware that SAMCRO are trying to reboot their image; why would he start another war?

“Are you sure?” Tig questions carefully.

“I think I’d know man!” Rat reads it as doubt in _him_ , which causes the young man to lose his temper. “God my face-”

Tig pats him on the shoulder, all sympathy. “Don’t worry, it’s as hideous as ever.”

Rat bares his teeth at the older man. “You’re a real fucking treat, Tig.”

Venus, who had been inside the office part of their space, must have noticed the commotion and has appeared outside along with Happy; who at that moment looked decidedly _un_ -happy.

“What in the world?” She looks between them all as if they’re naughty school children caught in the midst of a prank. “What happened to him?”

Tig tries his best to look innocent. “Could you get us something cold, beautiful?”

Venus trots away briskly, and returns with a chilled can of soda from the mini fridge they’ve set up for their breaks. “Here darlin’” She tenderly places it on Rat’s busted nose.

“Thank you ma’am.” He mumbles, sad and rather pathetic, plus bruised.

“You’re welcome honey.” Venus clucks worriedly at her ‘adopted’ son. “My goodness, someone was very mad at you.”

“They took the parts.” Rat adds quietly.

“Shit!” Tig curses, running a hand through his curls, lip twitching upward in a half snarl. “That’s an over a thousand dollars’ worth of stuff! And we’re already in the red, we need those new bikes finished.” HE then speaks aloud what the whole yard is thinking at that moment. “We’re screwed.”

“Not as screwed as those Mayans.” Happy murmur’s ominously. 

It’s so easy for them to fall into old habits; tooth for a tooth. But Chibs intends to derail that train before it even has a chance to puff out smoke.

“Hold on...” He says, calmly. “There might be an explanation for it. We need to get in touch with Alverez.”

The tension in the air crackles like a fire.

“We can’t let some punks do this to our guys, man.” Tig takes a closer glance at Rat’s injuries, he is not pleased at all; despite the fact he’d rather get struck by lightning than admit he cares. “Ain’t right, even if we’re straight now.”

Happy nods in silent agreement; trust him to be up for spilling blood again.

“We’ll talk to Alverez first.” Chibs repeats, very sternly, grabbing hold of this situation with both hands. “This might be some rogue guys for all we know.”

He makes eye contact with each of the present SAMCRO members in turn. “No one does _anything_ till we do that.” His voice drops to a warning timbre. “Got it?”

Venus busies herself with getting Rat inside where she can fuss over him to her heart’s content, and Tig gives Chibs a non-committal shrug in response; the scot might have to work on his intimidating speeches.  

Hap unwraps some chewing gum and pops it into his mouth; his personal way of saying that he will do as he pleases regardless of Chib’s opinion. The insubordination today is an outrage.

“Fine by me.” Happy responds, chewing. “But no beat downs tonight Tig, I got plans.”

This is unheard of, Happy never has ‘plans’, not since coming back from being a Nomad anyway. “Plans? Like what?” Chibs asks, intrigued.

Tig sniggers. “Happy’s got himself a nice pussy cat. For keeps.”

Chibs processes that, and his jaw nearly dislodges itself and falls to the floor such is his astonishment. “What?” As if the previous five minutes have been forgotten, he rounds on Happy like a teenage girl wanting to know what the score is. “ _You?_ ”

Of all of SAMCRO Happy has been unanimously voted least likely to settled down; he likes to get his dick wet, and his trips with Tig to the famous Jellybean are well documented. Much to everyone’s mild horror, Chibs felt uncomfortable just sitting in the parking lot with Althea.

 God.

What must this woman be _like?_

“Happy’s got a g-i-r-l-f-r-i-e-n-d.” Tig, on a roll today, begins to sing a little song right there in front of SAMCRO’s designated murderer.

Happy responds with a look cold enough to start a second ice age. “How about I put a bullet in your ass, Tig?”

\----

“Hello, boy.”

Harry sits with his hands folded on the table, he’s been waiting fifteen minutes for his father to arrive; and has set himself up so he has the upper hand. As if he is some powerful being that has called the other man too him instead of the truth of it, which is the exact opposite.

“Old man.”

Tully sits down, and the two men do nothing for a few breaths but look at each other like the only two men left standing after two opposing armies have had a gun fight.

“You look well.” Tully drawls.

“You look like crap.” Harry responds, curtly. “You should really get out in the sun more often.”

Tully has begun to look more and more like a member of the walking dead; pale and drawn around the face which suggests illness or weight loss. Perhaps it’s something terminal, but Harry wouldn’t be so lucky.

“Just like your mother.” Tully says, with a strange, upward smirk. “Full of sass.”

“You didn’t stick around long enough to know what my mother was like.”  Harry sneers, knowing it would be best strategy to remain neutral; but the mention of his mother riles him like a dog that’s being teased with a bone.

“Yes I did.” Tully scolds, as if offended by the notion. He sat back, looking into the far distance as if caught up in an emotional memory; it’s all fake. “I still remember when we met-” He chuckles fondly.  “It was in that march for homos with AIDS back in 87.”

Harry’s hands tighten into fists on top of the table.

“God rest her soul.” Tully adds, making a face which is a mockery of remorse.

“Why were you there? To spit on people?” Harry asks, and he does have genuine queries as to why what would have been a neo-Nazi heartthrob (he’s seen pictures, Tully used to be a handsome young man) doing at a march promoting the rights of LGBT people.

Tully picks his nails. “Can’t recall, long time ago.”

“What do you want?”

“I got a small favour to ask.”

Tully’s favours are never small, they have invisible strings attached that aren’t immediately apparent but trip you up later. He reaches a hand into his prison uniform and pulls out a brown package; ordinary, except it isn’t, because it’s from him. He sets it down with care on the table.

“I need you to give this to Ortiz.” He says.

Harry stares at the thing, counts the edges, listens for a bomb, tries to figure out if there is something he’s missing. “That’s it? You dragged me out here to play postal worker for you?”

It’s an innocuous task, one a blind chimpanzee could do. “Get one of your thugs to do it.” It’s not as if Tully is short staffed; even if he’s only third in command, he’s’ still a pretty big cheese.

“I think it’ll be more _personal_ coming from you.” Tully explains, smirking again. “How is he, anyway?”

Harry thinks about Jules, really _thinks_ about him.

The guy is not okay; he’s holding on to his sanity by his fingertips, and worse still he seems to have taken on Diesel and Tonto as if they’re stray dogs. Raz will be next, then Blue, and Harry will have himself a hoarding type of scenario to deal with; but instead of skinny animals, its AB prospects.

Jules has already got the trailer, now all he needs is time.

Why the man hasn’t eaten a bullet by now is anyone’s guess.

“Alive.” Harry concedes. “Going a little nuts in that trailer.”

“I think he was always a little nuts.” Tully muses, as if Jules is some great mystery of the universe. Then, he changes tactics, and becomes melancholy. “Poor kid didn’t get many breaks in life.”

Harry wouldn’t call Jules a ‘kid’ as the guy is probably ten years his senior, but there is a youthful vulnerability to him which transcends his age; a wandering hopelessness that is attached to lost little boys trying to find their way home only to get preyed upon by a monster.

“Kinda like you, huh?” Tully leans forward. “You’re both lucky I came along when I did.”

Harry’s hands are clenched so tightly he’s sure his nails have pierced the skin of his palms.

“I’d say you’d be in pretty hot water now otherwise.”

Harry considers that statement, and ponders over an infinite possible amount of futures; he wonders what would have really happened if he hadn’t left Ohio in a hurry.

“No.” He says, with a decisive beat to the word. “I’d be like you, a sad waste of a man sitting in jail… and if I _were_ you, I would have slit my own neck years ago.”

He looks for any kind of sign that he has gotten to Tully, and preens when he catches a slight narrowing of the old man’s eyes before he can mask it. “Because being dead is better than being a rat in a cage.”

Tully clicks his tongue and methodically slides the brown package towards his son. “Make sure he gets it.”

Done with this, Harry snatches it off the table and calls the guard to let him know that this cursed meeting is over; thankfully.

He walks with a perfectly rehearsed couldn’t-give-a-fuck attitude, just to show the man behind the table that he has no power over Harry’s psyche.

Tully calls after him. “It was nice to see you, Harrison.”

\-----

It’s difficult to see Tig in his black clothes, as the evening is moonless as the few starts out are very small, which is the intended effect; after all, you wouldn’t break into someone’s house wearing a bright yellow jumpsuit.

“You’re not fitting into one of those window’s Chibby-” He muses, looking up at the square windows on the upper floor of Higgins’ not so humble abode. “You’re too flabby.”

“That’s why I brought you, skinny arse.” Chibs counters, though he is aware in his mature age he’s starting to get a built in floatation device in the form of stomach flab. Handy for swimming, but not flattering. “Get climbing.”

Tig is also not as nimble as he used to be, but the beautiful thing about being president is getting to watch his friend ascend the roof and squeeze through the small opening (which, thanks to Jarry’s investigations, they know is always open).

You’d think rich Neo-nazis would have more care about locking their windows, there are some shady characters around.

“Juice better fucking worship me when we save his ass-” Tig mutters under his breath as he makes it through the window. He manages to do so without making too much noise, and thankfully the room he’s in now is unoccupied. “All the trouble I’m going too…”

He feels at his belt for his radio and calls Chibs. “I’m inside.”

“Any sign of Higgins?” asks Chibs, crackly with static.

Tig steps as lightly as he can, exploring the top floor as silent and as unseen as a fox in a midnight parking lot. He finds no one, and can discern from the flickering light cast on the wall that leads down the stairs that the TV has been left on in the living room.

Tig creeps, and finds himself peering around a doorway which reveals a man slumped in a leather armchair, feet up, dead to the word while the flat screen television set hums away to itself.

Perfect.

“He’s passed out in front of the TV.” Tig says into his radio.

“Unlock the door.” Comes the reply.

Tig is able to go around Higgins and let Chibs inside the hour via a screen door in the kitchen. It unlocks with a satisfying click.

Both men go to stand before the man in the chair and discuss what the next move should be.

Higgins has taken off his shirt, his white chest on full show; decorated with a black swastika over his heart which sits neatly within a green lucky clover.

Both of the SAMCRO brothers have a great desire to burn it off the man’s flesh.

“Right, so-” Chibs begins. “How do you want to play this? Good cop, bad cop?”

Tig frowns in thought. “I was thinking we could react that scene from Reservoir dogs?”

Chibs knows exactly the one he means. “Good movie.”     

Higgins stirs suddenly, coming around with a piggish snort, and blinks until the two men come swimming into his view. “What the _hell_ -”

“Good evening, laddie.” Chibs grins and plants his fist into Higgin’s flabby jaw before he can even think to do something about it. It takes his and Tig’s combined strength to haul the man across the room and down into a dining chair and tie him to it. Chibs has brought with him some electric cable to do the job.

“You pieces of shit!” Higgins yowls as he is restrained. “Do you know who I am?!”

“A fat, fucking racist wank stain?” Chibs asks, light and cheerful, rolling up his sleeves. From the car parked outside, Chibs had retrieved an innocuous tool bag, which contained everything they needed in case they had to forcibly exact the information they desired.

Hopefully, it wouldn’t come to that.

Chibs plucked a pair of metal pliers from the bag and showed them to their captive.

Higgin’s stopped wriggling, and stared with wide open eyes at the instrument. “What’s that?”

“Oh these? These here are pliers.” Chibs showed them to Higgins as if he were a rather stupid little kid. “And I’m going to yank out your fingernails if you don’t shut up.”

That alone was a convincing argument, as the man’s jaw quickly snapped shut.

“Better.” Says the old Scot, keeping the pliers in front of the man’s face so he knows what might happen if he doesn’t play along. “Now, tell us where Ron Tully is keeping Juice Ortiz.”

“Who?” Higgins’ attempt at playing dumb wasn’t fooling anyone.

“His prison bitch.” Tig clarified, which made Chib’s spine want to curl up like an offended creepy crawly. Thinking of Juice in that way, as someone’s pleasure toy, to be completely stripped of his humanity and reduced so much was incredibly disturbing; but, like Tig, he was once comfortable making jokes about such things.

Now, he regrets every time he’d made some wisecrack abut soap dropping or bunk sharing; it’s not funny anymore.

“Where did he stash him?” Tig presses, oblivious to Chib’s musings.

“No idea.” Higgins says, hard faced.

Chibs was filled with a cold, strangely logical kind of rage which made him act quickly and decisively. He grabs one of Higgins’ hands and clamps the plier’s down upon the fingernail of his pinkie finger; then he pulls, and pulls.

The screams fill the house like an echo chamber.

With a grimace of disgust, Chibs deposits the fingernail on the kitchen counter. Tig is looking somewhat peaked, perhaps he had not mentally prepared himself for actually going through with it.

“That’s one.” Chibs hissed through his teeth. “I’ve got nine more left, it’s up to you what happens now, boyo.”

“You think- you think I’m scared of you?” Higgins was now dripping with sweat, his injured finger swelling and tipped red; now missing something. “You’re _nothing!_ The AB won’t just kill me if I talk-” He seemed to take a bit of morbid glee in this. “It’ll be like I never existed in the first place.”

“How about we take all your teeth?” Tig suggested, taking the pliers of his Prez and spitting like an adder in the neo-Nazi’s face. “Leave you sucking on baby food for the rest of your life?”

Higgin’s threshold for pain clearly isn’t very high, as he begins to crack. “You want info? Ask Tully himself.” He says, eyeing the pliers with fear. “I got his number. Call him.”

“…Call him?” Chibs repeats.

“Just like that?” Tigs joins in.

“Yeah, he’s got a guard that takes his messages for him.” Higgins babbles, struggling to get himself out of this difficult to escape hole that he’s in. “You’ll need to tell the guard the password if you want to speak to him-”

Chibs crosses his arms like an unimpressed parent; a move he most likely used on his own daughter. “And what might that be?”

“It’s _Don A. Stuart_.”

This is all beginning to sound like some nonsense concocted by a twelve year old, with passwords and guards, as if they’re trying to infiltrate a secret club that meets in a treehouse. Still, they have nothing else to go on.

Chibs works his jaw for a moment, then nods to Tig. He then snatches up the landline and prepares to make the call.

“If you’re telling lies, Higgins-” Tig warns, glaring down at their captive. “Watch me tear out your tongue and feed it to my dog.”

Chibs inwardly smiled at that threat, Bessie was so utterly harmless she’d sooner _lick_ the man to death. Higgins, with all the grace of a spoilt child being told no, slowly lists off the numbers; Chibs punches them one by one into the phone.

He then puts it on speaker.

_Ring. Ring. Ring._

Click.

“Who goes there?” asks a disembodied voice.

Chibs breathes out, unaware he was holding a breath to begin with. “Don A. Stuart.”

The silence is unsettling, then someone else answers the phone. “Hello?”

“Tully?” asks the Old Scot.

“Speaking.” Tully’s voice causes an unnatural hush, even the low hum of the night time animals and insects outside goes quiet. Chibs is almost sure he can hear not only his own heartbeat but those of the two men next to him.  “Who might you be?”

Chibs swallows some spittle collecting in his mouth, but it does nothing to soothe the sudden dryness in his throat.

“…It’s Chibs Telford.”


	15. Hope

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do love Tig, really.

“Oh, SAMCRO.” Tully sounds far away, as if calling from ten thousand feet beneath the earth; echoy and strange. It was the first time Chibs had spoken to him, as Jax had arranged the whole business with Juice without consulting him; because he knew Chibs would refuse to go along with it.

 “I was wondering when you’d get in touch.” Tully says. “What can I do for you?” He was accommodating, pleasant even; and he would be if not for the context of the call.

Tig is hovering by Higgins’ shoulder, eyes glued to his Prez as this bizarre talk takes place; he looks very wound up, like a spring ready to jump.

Chibs gets straight down to it. “Juice Ortiz. Where is he?”

“Right away? Not even going to bother with small talk first?” Tully asks, personally offended.

“I’m not in the mood for your games, Tully.” Chibs replies, keeping himself as strongly impersonal as possible; people like Tully feed off the emotional distress they cause. “Tell me where you’ve stashed the boy.”

The boy, not the man, but the boy. In Chibs’ mind, Juice will always be just a boy.

“I don’t think that would be in Juice’s best interests.” Tully is musing on something, half distracted. “Last I checked, SAMCRO wanted him dead.”

Chibs is quick to defend the club on that front; they might have wanted Juice dead at one point, but they thought that Jax had given him a pass. They didn’t know their president had intended to bring Juice to the altar like a sacrificial lamb. “That was Jax. He did that shit on his own.”

“He was _your_ president.” Tully presses, sniffing out where the club’s sore spots are located. They still haven’t grown accustomed to the loss of Jax, and Gemma for that matter.

That is something Chibs is never going to get over, not if he defied all biological realities and lived to be two hundred years old. How could a son kill his own mother?

“He spoke on your behalf.”

“Well _I’m_ president now.” The old scot grinds his teeth, easing out his anger. “And things have changed.”

“Are you sure he wants to see you?” Tully questions, rhetorically, of course. “After everything that happened?”

 _You don’t know anything._ Chibs thinks. _You don’t know what happened to us._

“I’m just protecting him from potential pain, he’s real frail, you know?” Tully puts on this quiet, caring tone, like he was talking about a lost puppy or a baby bird.

Chibs is disgusted. “Protecting him? Is that what you call it?” This time it was Tully who had a lot to answer for. “Does that make you feel less like a fucking monster?”

Tully scoffs, and Chibs swears he can see the man rolling his eyes in his mind. “Don’t be hysterical, Telford. There are no monsters. Only people.”

For a few moments, neither men speak, having come to some sort of impasse with each other.

 

“I didn’t think you’d understand.” Tully sighs deeply, no doubt shaking his head now too, to complete the effect but Chibs couldn’t see it. He’d love nothing more than to spit in the man’s smug, dead-eyed face. “See, what Ortiz and I had was… _special_.” That last word is coated with so much double meaning that Chibs shudders and almost drops the phone, so great is his revulsion. “We had a connection.”

“You raped him.” Chibs says, harsh and bleak, stating what he knew to be true and couldn’t be denied no matter what spin Tully put on it. “Over and over again.”

If he ever came close to feeling Juice’s pain, it was now; the ruinous, hollow feeling, that left you nothing more than a husk where a person should be.

“He let me do it.” Tully purred. “For the good the MC. That kind of loyalty is a real valuable. Shame your old boss squandered it.”

He taunting Chibs openly, because he knows he can; because he does not care.

The old scot is short of breath, fury mounting. “ _Where_ did you take him?”

“Somewhere safe.” Tully replies, expecting that answer to be satisfying in itself. He’s grown bored of this little cat and mouse game now. “Don’t worry, I always take good care of my loved ones.”

Chibs’ grip on the phone is so tight is a wonder the thing does not shatter like glass in is hand.

“Maybe… if you had taken better care of your friend, Telford, we wouldn’t be where we are now.” Tully drops his voice for his finisher, luring Chibs in like the fool he is. “A pity you never got to know him like I do.”

\----

_“I’m a bit worried about you, Juicey.”_

\----

The sick, pleasure filled smile is downright audible down the phone. “He’s the best fuck I’ve ever had.”

Chibs finally explodes like human dynamite, tossing the phone against the wall; it lands against the wallpaper with a cracking thud and lies on the kitchen floor, dead and useless. Although impossible, Chibs swears he can still hear Tully’s voice slithering out from the speaker.

Tig and Higgins watch in mute shock, before Tig can find his words again. “You giant fucking moron!”

The old scot holds his hands over his head, he’ll need a god dammed exorcist to free himself from Tully after this; the man gets inside you like a beastie, and crawls upward till he finds your brain. When he’s there, he stays and makes you doubt everything you think you know about the goodness of people.

“I couldn’t listen to it anymore…” Chibs feebly scoops up the phone and picks up the pieces; ashamed at his loss of control. Higgins is silent, watching with bulging eyes.

“Well now what, Prez?” Tig is circling the kitchen, like he does when he’s agitated; he’s got nowhere to go.

Chibs rubs at his head, trying to jump start his thoughts.

Tully has effectively told them nothing, just confirmed Juice is alive; but no indication as to _where_.

The old scot is not convinced that Higgins knows as little as he professes he does, the request to ask Tully himself for information nothing more than a stall for time.

The noises Tig is making are getting annoying, and Chibs snaps at him; all teeth and short temper. “Shut up, I’m thinking-”

Someone outside puts their key into the back door; Tig and Chibs both freeze in place like statues.

The key turns, a woman calls into the house. “Darryl? Did you fall asleep in front of the TV again?”

She is an older woman, elegantly turned out in heels and an overcoat, she is about to dump her handbag on a nearby counter when she looks up and sees the three of them.

Her husband tied to a chair and missing one fingernail, white as a sheet, surrounded by two men in black clothes, and her home phone left in shards by the fruit bowl.

In most situations like these, the human body responds with a number if pre-set fight or flight responses. Mrs Higgins decides to do neither, she opens her mouth; preparing to let out a scream.

Tig leaps toward her, and in the ensuring struggle, she whacks him several times over the head with her handbag.

\---

Juice is trying to prise open the jammed DVD player (their copy of Back To The Future is to blame) cursing and muttering to it as Tonto observes from atop the hood of one of the skeleton trucks nearby; Harry sidles up to the scene, holding aloft the package given to him by his father.

Truthfully he wants rid of the thing as soon as possible.

“Delivery.” He chirps.

Juice looks up, squinting at Harry. “Hm?”

Harry drops it at his feet, then steps away. His job is done. “It’s customary to tip the mail man.

Juice raises a dark eyebrow, Tonto picks his nose. “With what?”

Harry thinks on it, scratching his chin which sprouts a scruffy looking dead rat pelt of a goatee. “I take payment in the form of abusive substances.”

The Puerto Rican doesn’t even bother getting into a discussion about day drinking with him; he’d be one giant hypocrite besides, since he’s been popping those magic pills like skittles on the sleepless nights. “Beers are in the fridge.”

Harry strides past him and heads into the trailer.

One good thing about having newly acquired minions is that they fetch and carry for you. Tonto and Diesel had proven themselves useful at procuring groceries when Juice needed them, and alcohol; Juice didn’t ask where or how.

No use at this point in time.

“Who is it from?” Juice asks, picking up the brown envelope. It’s bulky.

Harry comes and leans on the door frame, opening the bottle in his hand with his teeth. “Guess.”

Juice feels a cold chill prickle up his spine, a slow grip of dread that squeezes his insides and made all the fear creep up his throat and into his mouth; he kept his lips firmly shut so none of it would escape.

“You don’t have to open it. It’s not like he’ll know.” Harry says, eyeballing him.

Logically Juice knows that, he could toss it in the trash; just like he could refuse to pick up the phone. But somehow, he’s afraid the avoidance will be read as fear, and letting a predator know you’re afraid means half the battle is already lost.

Juice grips the package tightly in his hands. “No…I need to.”

With as much courage as Juice has in him, he rips open the package and puts his hand inside; he feels crisp bundles of something papery under his fingertips. He then brings whatever Tully has sent him out into the light; several hundred dollar bills wrapped together in wads.

Tonto’s jaw drops to his knees; clearly he’s never seen so much money before. “Holy fuck.”

“Language, young warrior.” Harry’s interest is perked, and he looks over Juice’s shoulder with his scrutinising brown eyes. “That is a lot of green though. How much?”

“Um…” Juice hastily counts, which brings him some level of calm. “Two thousand I think?”

In the grand scheme of things, it’s not much, Juice has dealt with much bigger sums; in his other life.

Juice checks to see if that is all, but as he shakes the envelope, something rolls around. “There’s something else in here.”

“More money?” Tonto has hopped down from his seat and come to get a closer look.

“No…” A small, shiny object drops into Juice’s open palm. He examines it, and sees it is shaped like an iron cross; the kind he’s seen on the bodies of the AB members. He shows it to Harry. “Cufflink?”

Harry pokes it with a finger. “Earring, I think.”

There is also a hand written letter with the earring, which slips out innocently onto Juice’s lap. He picks it up, and recognises at once Tully’s curling scrawl.

_Dear Jules,_

_Hey sweetheart._

Juice loses some colour in his face, and as he reads he loses his sense of time and place; the entirety of his focus now on the letters inscribed onto the page. They come together to make words, and once again Juice imagines Tully’s voice; smooth and serpentine. 

Harry notices there is something off, and beckons Tonto over to him. “Hey, dances with wolves, go take those dogs for a walk. Give us fifteen.” He points to Sugar and Spice, who both sit up with wagging tails when Tonto begrudgingly fetches their leashes from inside the trailer.

They’re eager to go, pulling him down the dirt road despite him sinking his heels into the ground.

Juice doesn’t see any of this, nor does he care; he’s reading.

_I have to say, the nickname suits you. It sums up how precious you are to me._

\----

_“Because Juice isn’t your given name, and hell I’m saying ‘Juan Carlos’ this and that.”_

\----

Precious, something invaluable, something to be cherished and hidden; Juice has never felt that way, some small part of him has always felt wretched.

_I hope you accept this gift, consider it a reward for looking out for my foot soldiers out in the sticks._

Juice questions the sanity of a person who would consider heavily armed children as foot soldiers. Diesel might be on the mend, but a few centimetres to the left and Juice and Harry might have been burying a body that night

_The earring guarantees your safety, wear it, and no one will mess with you. It marks you out as my vessel, any word out of your mouth also comes from my mouth; my friends will respect that, and treat you accordingly._

He can hear no noise, not the birds, not the crickets, not the rumble of fair away traffic.

_I think it’s time you felt what it was like to be the top dog for a change._

Still a dog though, not a man.

_Yours lovingly,_

_Ron Tully._

Juice lets the letter hang from his grip, sitting silently as his mind thinks in a distressed circle; around and around till he feels dizzy.

“…what’s the word?”

He doesn’t respond.

“Jules?”

Juice uses Harry’s voice like a beacon, latching onto it and coming back to the real world.

“My ears aren’t pierced.” He mumbles, reaching up to gently caress his earlobe, as if this is some massive tragedy.

Harry claps him on the shoulder, it makes Juice jump. “Eh, don’t worry.” The younger man says, sending companionable warmth down into Juice’s body. “I know a girl in town that can do that for you.”

Standing, Juice moves away from Harry, turning around in a slow spin like a broken toy ballerina. He stops, and reaches down and picks up a few stray rocks from the ground.

His eyes have glossed over.

He is full of hate, suddenly.

The first throw misses, going too high, but the second, third, and fourth all hit their target. Juice grabs anything he can get his hands on, dirt clods, weeds, and scraps of metal.

Harry quickly gets out of the firing line, ducking his head to avoid getting hit.

Juice keeps hurling things till his arm aches, and there’s nothing left he can throw.

Tonto returned with the dogs about ten minutes ago, and has stood beside Harry watching the spectacle unfold.

Juice collapses, sitting in the dust and choking out a few sad, lonely sobs; hands over his face.

He feels a presence beside him, and he peeks out to see Tonto come to join him; cross legged and staring at Juice’s work. There are a few dents in the body, but nothing major. The trailer still stands.

So, it was all fruitless.

 “I get it…” The teen says softly. “Sometimes there aren’t enough rocks.”

\----

It took Chibs and Tig fifteen minutes to subdue Mrs Higgins completely. She was quite fit for an older gal, and landed a kick in Tig’s groin.

Once she was finally fixed to a chair next to her husband she started to cry softly, the sound muffled by the gag improvised by the men; Chibs was going to miss that sock.

This night was not turning out how they had intended at all.

“We need Hap, this fucker isn’t going to talk.” Chibs says, motioning at Higgins, who glared at them both; he’d gone silent now, refusing to say a single word about Juice or anything else for that matter.

Tig had found a bag of frozen peas in the freezer, and was currently holding it carefully to his manhood to soothe the pain. “What about her?”

“I don’t know, just keep her quiet while I go and make the call.” Chibs grumbles, going outside for a smoke and to summon their old friend. “Happy is going to love this…”

Tig is left alone with the two captives, and Mrs Higgins continues to sniffle.

“Would you please stop crying?” Tig growls. “I already said were not gonna kill you, but I got a migraine and the noise is killing me.”

His privates are also killing him, this woman has caused him a great deal of pain. He hobbles over and kneels down to talk directly into her face. “So I’d appreciate it if you quieten down, alright?”

Tig gets a whiff of something. “Nice perfume.” He says. “What is that? Opium?”

With frightened eyes, Mrs Higgins nods.

“That’s nice.” Tig then notices other things, lots of little things about Mrs Higgins’ appearance. Her lipstick is smudged, and under her clothes her bra has been undone; Tig has an eye for this stuff.

“Say, is it windy out there? You look a little…dishevelled.” He asks, casually.

Mrs Higgins looks confused, then alarmed, and her eyes dart towards her husband and back again. Mr Higgins is also looking over, trying to figure out what exactly they are talking about.

Then Tig smiles, broadly, mischievously. “Oh, oh dear Mrs Higgins.” He tuts. “I think someone has been telling the hubby some lies, hm?”

Mrs Higgins turns white, then bright red. Tig settles beside her. “How long has it been going on? A few months?”

The woman lifts her chin a little.

“Longer? Well now.” Tig crosses his arms, thinking. “A year?”

She nods.

Mr Higgins seems to splutter back into life. “You slut!”

“Ah, ah, you have no lines in this play.” Tig says, grabbing a dish cloth and stuffing it into the furious man’s mouth; he could swear that his wife looks amused by this.

He peered at Mrs Higgins eagerly. “So is he like… a yoga instructor?”

She shook her head.

“No? Hmm, someone you met at the gym?”

She gave him an encouraging bob of her head, indicating that he was close.

“Oh! Tennis partner?” Tig guessed. “Aw screw it I need to find out.” He reached up and removed the sock gag from her mouth.

“Squash partner.” She says, with a youthful glint.

Tig snaps his fingers. “Dammit.”

They are left in an awkward aftermath, with Tig sitting on the floor next to Mrs Higgins and her basking in the attention of her exposed affair.

A few minutes later, Tig rises and offers an unorthodox solution. “Tell you what, this is going to get kinda messy, so why don’t you go upstairs, pack a bag, and let lover boy come and pick you up?”

She blinks owlishly at him. “Y-You would let me go?”

The veteran of SAMCRO hums. “So long as you don’t do something stupid… like call the cops.” He says. “I honestly wouldn’t bother, we have friends who are cops.”

Chibs being in bed with the law was proving to be extremely helpful, now if only Happy could get in bed with a lady firefighter they’d be made up.

Mrs Higgins looks anxiously at her husband. “B-But what about-”

“He’s a Nazi, honey.” Tig responds before she can finish. He summons up what little patriotic pride he can. “Nazi’s are bad for America’s health.”

Mrs Higgins looked pained, but only for a minute. Tig could see the years of marriage flit across her eyes like a movie, and it mustn’t have been a very good one because she frowned and went hard faced.

Then, she nodded.         

“Good girl.” Tig let her go, and she got up smartly and dusted herself off; with a quick step she marched up stairs.

Of course, she could always summon the police from upstairs, but Tig had a strong inkling that she wouldn’t; and his inklings were nearly always right. He’d offered her a once in a life time opportunity out of an unsatisfying life and a chance to do something she really wanted.

Who could pass that up?

Chibs picked that moment to reappear from the back yard. Judging from his blown pupils, he’d had himself a joint to ease his jitters. “He’ll be here in a little while.” He says, then notices the empty chair. “Where’s the woman?”

Tig grins. “Packing for an impromptu ski vacation probably.”

The old Scot looks blankly at him.

“I’ll explain later. What did you tell Hap?”

Rubbing the back of his neck, Chibs sighs. “That we’re planning on taking a mayhem vote on Juicy… but we need to find him first.”

“You think he bought it?” Tig asks.

Chibs can do nothing more but shrug, Happy is a great puzzle that would take a mind greater than his own to solve.

Mrs Higgins promptly returns with a bulging suitcase, wheeling it to the backdoor; she’s also touched up her makeup and hair. She looks downright classy.

The waiting is an odd, but mercifully short. A Cadillac pulls up out front and honks the horn twice.

“That’s Francis.” Mrs Higgins retrieves her handbag and gathers it to her body.

“He’s awful keen.” Tig remarks, then opens the door for the lady, giving her a sly wink. “Well, good luck to you, Ma’am. Remember our deal?”

Mrs Higgins looks over at her husband for a brief second, the sticks her nose in the air. “Do what you want.” She says. “Just make sure someone feeds Pandora while I’m gone.”

Pandora must be a pet of some kind, Tig noticed a litter tray upstairs so he puts his money on it being a cat; a pity he’s allergic and Bessie is terrified of them. Some dog she is.

“Of course.”

She leaves, her heels clicking victoriously on the sidewalk as she greets her lover warmly. Tig gets it, he couldn’t imagine life without Venus; and after all he’s learned, he realises being happy is very important.

And the world can go to hell.


	16. Timid friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WARNINGS - this chapter contains a sex scene with dubious consent.

The two men anxiously await Happy’s arrival like the second coming of Jesus Christ himself. The stakes seem just as high.

When at last they hear the low roar of a bike, Chibs rushes to the window and takes a peak outside. “I think that’s our guy now.”

He can see Happy dismount, and shrouded in darkness he walks to the door.

Tig lets the man in, he’s dressed as they are, in black from head to toe; although Happy prefers dressing this way anyhow, he doesn’t do bright colours. It doesn’t match his demeanour. “Hey, Hap.”

Happy, as is his want, gets straight down to business. “Where is he?” He asks.

“Living room.” Chibs says, stepping aside and allowing the man to go past. They’d moved Higgins out of the kitchen so that they wouldn’t have to watch what was about to unfold. Hopefully Happy would get what he needed without drawing it out too long.

“Tools?”

“Here.” Tig hands him the bag of wrenches, hammers and screwdrivers that they brought with them. “You er…Got any questions?”

Happy regards them, eyes black and surprisingly clear; he’s always oddly animated when he’s working. “You just need a location, right?”

Tig looks a little nervous. “Well, yeah, but that’s not what I meant.”

“We’ll talk when I’m done.” Happy turns and as quietly as a hunting wolf, prowls to where Higgins was tied up and shut the door behind him with a soft click.

Tig lets out a half laugh, half sigh. “It’s times like this I wonder what my mother thinks of me.”

Chibs is craving another smoke, and it’s a good excuse to go outside while Happy is extracting the location from Higgins. He pops a cig out of the box he carries with him and puts it to his lips. “You _could_ call her and ask, Tigger.”

Tig glares over at his Prez. “Like _hell_ I’m doing that.”

\----

Getting a breeze from the open car window fills Juice’s bones with warmth, that and the fact that the temperature only climbs higher with every day. There’s a reason Nevada is dry, after all.

Harry has a decent selection of music in his truck, arranged alphabetically in the glove box; everything from the Beatles, Rolling Stones, Panic at the Disco, and some Bon Jovi.

Well, it’s not as if Juice was expecting to find copies of Beethoven and Bach.

The truck drove like a smooth, uninterrupted dream, not even creaking or moaning as they climb a bit of a hill towards Main Street. Juice looks all about him, drinking in the town of Sycamore.

It’s more or less as he expected, small, run down, and incredibly white; Juice is rather conspicuous, unless all the other Latino’s are hiding somewhere. Harry parks up outside a cute little shop which has bold as brass pink lettering above the windows; The Flamingo appears to be empty, and just as brightly coloured inside as it is outside.

Juice is curious.  

Harry hops out of the car and opens Juice’s door for him, grinning. “Your highness, by your leave.”

“Asshole.” Juice says, but it’s laced with dare he say it, a fondness towards the man. This is something he hasn’t felt since he was still part of SAMCRO. He squints up at the outrageous sign, it certainly stands up among the more sedate mom and pop stores. “Why a Flamingo?”

Harry scrolls through some messages on his phone. “The manager likes pink.”

They enter the shop, and a silver bell above the door twinkles with a merry ring.

The walls are a jolly pastel pink, accompanied black and white floor tiles that put Juice in mind of a barbershop from the 1950s; its immaculately clean, which pleases his OCD, and the repeating pattern is calming.

The salon has a few spinning chairs that are the colour of bubble-gum in front of three perfectly matched circular mirrors. Juice can imagine three identical old ladies sitting in each, gossiping and getting their hair done.

The girl behind the desk is flicking through a fashion magazine. Her nails are impractically long, and a lime green which clashes somewhat awkwardly to her blonde hair and candyfloss uniform shirt. She’s certainly pretty, if not a little too made-up and bored for Juice’s taste.

When she hears the door, she looks up and smiles at Juice’s companion. “Hiya, Harry.”

“Janie.” Harry smoothly walks over and gives a cool toss of his fringe so it doesn’t fall over his eyes. Juice could swear he sees the woman exhale in a short gasp. “Where’s Tanya?”

Janie looks disappointed that Harry hasn’t asked for her. She pouts a little bit. “In the back, do you need her?”

“Got an appointment for my friend here.” Harry jerks a thumb in Juice’s direction, who waves at Janie, smiling somewhat sheepishly. “Getting his ears done, and…a massage.”

Juice frowns. Harry hadn’t mentioned anything about a massage before now.

Janie’s eyes twinkle with understanding. “Oh, I see. I’ll go get her.”

As lightly as a deer she disappears through a curtain and into the back of the shop.

Juice gives Harry a questioning glance. “A massage?”

Harry winks at him, its disconcerting. “Go with it.”

After a few minutes of waiting, Juice hears the tell-tale click clack of heels approaching. The curtain is flung back and a brunette, whose hair has been bleached at the ends, looks at them as if they are mice in her kitchen. “Harry, I thought I heard the gates of hell opening.”

Juice smirks. He likes her already. She’s wearing an identical shirt to Janie, but a badge resting neatly on her left breast proudly states ‘MANAGER’ in gold letters. So, she’s the boss around here.

Harry claps Juice on one shoulder, it takes all his self-control not to startle away. “This is Jules, and Jules, this is Delilah.”

The younger man playfully shoves Juice in the direction of Delilah; he straightens up as best he can and shoots Harry a glare out of the corner of his eye.

“Be gentle, he doesn’t get out much.” Harry sits on one of the pretty pink salon chairs, putting his feet up and getting comfortable. “If you need me, I’ll be sharpening my pitch fork over here.”

Delilah purses her lips, annoyed by Harry’s disrespect of her place of work; but soon she decides it’s not worth wasting the oxygen it would take to complain at him. She looks upon Juice, and her face loses its toughness; her eyes are a gentle midday blue. “Come on, hon.”

Juice follows her into a little room which contains a worn spinning chair whose stuffing had starting to fall out at the seams. There are metal racks which display piercings of various colours and sizes, from ones almost as big as one of Juice’s eyeballs to some so tiny they are difficult to see at all.

A metal table sits by the chair, and on it rests a peculiar object that appears to be the unholy offspring of a stapler and a nail gun. Juice’s ease from before seeps away, and his palms begin to sweat. He was always freaked out by needles.

He regrets agreeing to this.

Juice clears his throat and hopes Delilah doesn’t pick up on his jitters. “Nice place you got. Very pink.”

She smiles, her lips the colour of a spring rose. “My favourite colour, it makes me happy.”

She gestures for him to take a seat and Juice does, but stiffly, unable to relax; he watches her pick up the piercing gun, wielding it like an old fashioned cowgirl.  

“So, I heard you saved my brother from his own idiocy.” She loads something into the end of her weapon, a little silver ball which will be going into Juice’s ear soon.

His heart does a nervous tap dance in his chest, and he misses what she is saying. “Um…”

“Diesel.” Delilah is too busy prepping the piercing gun to make eye contact. “He’s my kid brother.”

“Oh, right.” Juice is surprised, but he remembers that Diesel is a local kid so it makes sense he’d have family around town somewhere.

Huh, Diesel and Delilah. How cute.

Juice is not sure how best to respond to her. “Er, you’re welcome?”

What else could he say? It’s not as if he planned it.

Her hand stills, she appears monetarily reflective. “I worry about him a lot.” A small laugh escapes from her. “You know he got expelled from school for setting fire to his locker?”

That does sound like something Diesel would do. “I did not.”

Delilah lets the gun fall to the table with clatter, she has riled herself up with thoughts of her brother. Juice jumps. “He’s outta control, my dad won’t do a damn thing about it. He encourages him.”

They’re father is an AB member, so it suits him to have a kid whose eager for approval, has no concept of danger, and is conveniently outside the school system. It is indeed a worrisome situation.

From what he can see, Delilah has no AB markers. He’s not sure if he should relax not round her.

Juice makes a mental note to check in with the kid when they get back.

Delilah looks embarrassed, after all she and Juice have only just met. “Sorry, I shouldn’t vent at you.”

Juice manages a smile for her, full of understanding. “It’s okay.” He says. “He’s a pretty wild kid.”

She guffaws. “Aren’t they all, up there?”

“Completely _nuts_.” Juice smiles wider, it’s nice to talk to someone who might know to what extent his life has become a complete looney tunes cartoon; but with more Nazis.

Delilah dabs his ear with a soaked ball of cotton wool, it tingles. “This is gonna pinch, but it’ll be over soon.”

Juice nods, and gets ready for it.                                  

He’s had tats done which have taken hours, and not minded the burning, stabbing sensation over a long period of time. This, though it’s tiny in comparison and over in a blink, reminds him of bee stings and somehow catches him off guard in a way he doesn’t like.

Delilah has soft fingers which attend to Juice’s ear; she makes sure the stud is correctly in place.

“Both ears?” She asks, her breath is lightly scented with mint.

“Yeah, I want them to be the same.” Juice likes symmetry, it brings him a sense of balance.

This time, she counts him in when they do the left ear. “One…two…three…”

And just like that, it’s over. Juice reaches up to touch his new accessories, the metal is cold and stands out against the now over hot flesh of his earlobes. It doesn’t hurt exactly, but it is a very weird feeling.

“You’ll need to keep those in for a few weeks while your ears heal.” Delilah explains. “And keep them clean, I’ll give you some solution.”

If Juice is good at anything, it’s keeping clean. That trailer always smells of bleach, not to mention his hands are drying out from the constant washing.

“Thanks.” Juice rolls his shoulders, he’s been sitting so rigidly that his muscles have started to seize up. “Harry mentioned a massage?”

Something shifts in Delilah, her movements slow, and she looks down her thick eyelashes at Juice; her mouth parting sensually. She comes out of herself, a flower in bloom. “Don’t worry, that comes next.”

She begins to unbutton her work shirt, and a black lace bra peeks through, holding her pale cleavage like two balls of sculpted marble.

Ah.

He should have known.

This is obviously Harry’s idea of ‘helping.’

He cannot speak, he freezes in place as she approaches and lightly traces her manicured nails across his neck; he flinches, imagining the rope he’d once hung there tightening.

She misinterprets his shiver. “It’s’ alright, sweetheart.”

He’s always someone’s sweetheart, whether he wants it or not.

Once, he would have enjoyed this.

“Let me take care of you.”

Juice lets her climb on top of him, remove his shirt as if he were a giant doll and suck on his collarbone. He goes away for a long time, coming back around when his body is reaching its climax; and he watches mutely as Delilah’s breasts bounce up and down in front of him.

He lets his head fall backwards, and cums with guttural moan. 

\----------

Happy is not a thug, he’s too precise in his work; a trained professional from the school of inflicting pain.

He emerges from the living room with blood on his hands, and goes to wash them in the sink. Chibs and Tig have finished their smokes and join him. The house is as silent as a graveyard at midnight.

“…so, did he give you anything?” Tig asks.

Happy says only one word. “Nevada.”

 That’s all, no address, no street name, and no town; Just the word ‘Nevada’.

Chibs states the obvious. “Nevada is a big place.” At least they know Juice isn’t, in terms of geographic location, not that far away. It narrows down their search, but not by much.

Tig pipes up again. “Are we in danger of repercussions here?”

“He won’t talk.” Harry assures, and the men both believe him. “But I’d take him to the hospital if I were you.”

Chibs cringes, he really doesn’t want to know the extent of the damage. Tig gives him a wink. “Montez and Rat will come and do it.”

They do, but by god do they whine about it. But in fairness no one likes to be called out of bed at one o’clock in the morning to come and haul an unconscious white supremacist to the emergency room.

They bring the van, and load Higgins into it with little grace, and drive away; unseen by the residents of the cosy little cul-de-sac.

Tig sees them off, then comes back into the house. “Okay, the wonder twins have gone.”

Happy has also dealt with the mess inside, erasing any DNA evidence and indication that something sinister happened here tonight. All Chibs can think is _‘thank Christ he’s on our side’._

But it’s now time for the truth. “We have a confession to make, Hap.” He says.

Happy peels off the marigolds he’s wearing, folds them, and puts them back under the sink where he got them. “Go on.”

There’s no real way to make it sound anything less than a deception, but Chibs has a go at it. Of course, there’s one giant piece of the story he saves, waiting till the right moment to bring it up.

“…so you lied to me.” Happy sums it all up very well.

“Yeah.” Tig looks shifty. “Sorry, man.”

“And Jarry’s been helping you?” Happy narrows is eyes and crosses his arms. “Why?”

Chibs can feel his mouth slowly going dry. It’s coming. “She feels personally responsible.”

“For what? She had nothing to do with Juice.”

Tig and Chibs share a glance, its Chib’s duty to go into the gory details of the sordid tale.

“…she visited him in Prison, tried to get some information about Tara’s murder.” He hates Althea’s compliance in this, hates that she didn’t act before Juice was snatched away out of sight, and hates that a man they once trusted was just a twisted as all the ‘bad guys’ they’d risen against countless times before.

Interesting when the knight in shining armour has the heart of a dragon.

“She…found out about some things that were going on inside and didn’t do anything about it.”

Happy’s gaze doesn’t falter. “What things?”

“Jax sold Juice to Tully as a fuck toy, in exchange for Tully providing Juice with protection. So he could kill Lin.” The words expel themselves like vomit out into the world and leave an empty hole in their wake.

The men stand in silence as they are forced to grapple with such a terrible thing.

“…She told you that?” Happy asks, a hardness in his features where there was none before.

“Aye.” Chibs nods, his heart having leapt up to his throat and his stomach falling to his knees. “And…Tully confirmed it.”

Happy raises one eyebrow. “Tully did?”

Tig takes the opportunity to cut in, and Chibs is glad of it. “We spoke to him tonight, Higgins pointed us in his direction when we wanted info on Juice.” The SAMCRO veteran looks grim, pale and drawn. “He was gloating about it, Happy.”

Happy is thinking the way he always thinks, silently. “How long was it going on?”

Chibs does the math in his head. “…till Juice was let out of prison about three months ago?”

Has it been that long? It must have been. It’s awful, because Juice has been missing for _three months_ and only now have they gotten something close to concrete on his whereabouts. If Juice were still in the club, they would be tearing apart the world till they found him.

“How long was he in prison for?” Happy inquires, he obviously wants to get to grips with the scale of the horror; he works best with facts, from there he can respond accordingly.

“….over a year.” Chibs replies, and that alone could bring him down with anguish.

Juice was his _brother_ , they would have died for each other once.

When did it come to this? At what moment in time did they set on this path? Did they stack their bad karma up too high and let it all fall on the weakest member of the pack?

Perhaps.

Happy has said nothing.

Which is expected.

But the hush is unbearable.

“Hap?”

“I don’t like being lied too.” Happy cracks his knuckles. “But some things are more important.” He gives Chibs a look that burns as hot as the sun. “I’ll help, but we need to tell the club.”

“Sure that’s a good idea?” Tig questions.

“No more secrets.” It’s an order, there is no room for compromise in Happy’s world. Things are either one or the other, you are dead or you are not dead. Despite him being not what you would call a ‘nice fella’ Happy does possess some human decency in him; and he’s made his opinions on rape very clear.

He will not allow another Otto to happen. They should have done more, then; they keep mistakes like holiday mementos.

“But we do it discreetly.” Happy says. “I can’t afford any blow up on us. I got someone else to think of, now.”

Ah, yes. Chibs had forgotten about that. Perhaps no longer flying solo has softened Happy up a little.

“You mean your _girlfriend?_ ” Tig mocks, enjoying this moment. “Must be getting serious.”

The humour seeps into the air and it is a great relief. “I’ve got to meet this lass.” Chibs added. “Make sure she’s real and not an automaton.”

Happy flips the both of them off. “Fuck you.”


	17. My fate would tend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Okay guys, work is extremely busy lately, so sorry for the lack of updates XD
> 
> From now on I'm going to try and update bi-weekly, so every fourteen days. 
> 
> Thanks x

There was only so much tossing and turning a man could do before he slowly started to go mad.

The oppressive walls of the metal box Juice not so fondly called home these days were slowly suffocating him; it was worse at night, when it was dark and he could hear himself think. The dogs were outside, as Juice didn’t want to deal with them pacing around the trailer at all hours.

Though it didn’t matter really, he hardly ever slept longer than a few hours at a time.

That night he decides a walk might help him fall asleep, so he digs out a flash light from one of the drawers in the kitchen and steps out into the wilderness.

The bugs are surprisingly loud, chirping and whirling around Juice’s head and more than once he has to swat at a hopeful mosquito that lands on him.

He finds the pond, or what Harry has described as the pond; it’s more a large puddle of water in the middle of the dry earth, with a few spindly weeds encircling it. The buzzing here is intense, as the insects congregate around what could be the only moisture for miles.

Juice sits at the edge, and tries to think sleepy thoughts.

The snap of a twig behind him almost makes him jump into the water, he puts a hand on his taser (these days to be found dangling from his hip) and spins around to face whoever has snuck up on him.

It’s Tonto, blinking at Juice as he shines the flashlight on his young face.

Juice sags in relief. “Kid. You scared the shit out of me.”

The boy shrugs. “Sorry, man.”

Juice returns to his spot and Tonto joins him, they watch the night slowly tick by as two men do.

“….it’s pretty, ain’t it?” Asks Juice, who can never bear silence for too long.

“Could be worse.” The kid mutters.

“What are you doing out here?” Juice asks, knowing logically that a fifteen year old should be at home and not wondering around in the dark.

“I get out of the house when my dad is drinking.” Tonto picks up a stone from by his feet and slings it into the water; it lands with a soft plop.

Juice’s mind niggles him with a thought, and before long he can no longer contain it to just his head. “I feel bad calling you Tonto, man.” He tells the kid. “What’s your real name?”

Tonto could level a skyscraper with his stony expression. “What are you gonna give me for it?”

“Um…” Juice wasn’t expecting to have to pay for the kid’s name. “What do you want?”

Tonto smirked. “A Lexus.”

Juice chuckled, and opened up his palms to show off his poverty. “I don’t think I got one of those.”

“Awright.” Tonto considered for a little while before speaking again. “What’s your _real_ name? I know it’s not Jules.”

It certainly wasn’t, though it was starting to grow on Juice a little.

“No, it’s not.” Juice agreed, nodding his head. “It’s Juan Carlos.”

Tonto looked mighty amused by that. “Juan Carlos?”

“Yeah, but I got called Juice.”

At that, Tonto let out a guffaw. “Juice? What, like orange juice?” Unable to keep his laughter contained, the kid’s body began to shake with the force of his giggles.

Juice sat there and watched him, slowly growing over warm with embarrassment. “Alright asshole, what’s your name?” Juice demanded. “Tell me so I can make fun of it.”

Tonto paused and wiped a tear from one of his eyes. “It’s Nelson.”

Juice only took a single minute to absorb what the kid had said before responding in a tone as flat as the Sahara.  “Nelson? Are you kidding me?” He asks, incredulous. “Fucking _Nelson?_ And you’re laughing at me?”

Tonto, who was now Nelson, snorted and shot Juice back a look that was spookily wise beyond its years. “At least I’m not named after a drink.”

Juice opened his mouth to explain the full story of his name, but decided to keep that remnant of his past firmly to himself. He’d originally been called JC since he was thirteen, on account of him wanting to fit in and a cool nickname seemed to be a stepping stone into the world of teenage-hood. He’d carried it with him after he had to leave Queens in a hurry and introduce himself as such.

But Chibs had been the one to bring Juice in and present him to the rest like a puppy he found in the rain; and with his accent ‘JC’ sounded an awful lot like ‘Juicey’. It got to be an inside joke, and grew a life all of its own.

Thus SAMCRO cut out the middle man and just called the Prospect Juice from then on. It fit.

Or at least, he had felt like it fit at the time.

Nelson misinterpreted Juice’s silence for sulking, and nudged him with his elbow. “Hey… in a way, it’s good.” He says. “If you make people laugh, they remember you.”

Juice accepts that and gives the kid a very small smile. He thinks about Half-sack, again, and realises that one ball or not; he was a good, memorable man. Juice misses how they used to talk, laugh about some stupid shit while they were supposed to be tuning up an old car in the workshop.

Funny how the memories come back.

The man and the boy don’t talk much after that, just in the quietude and listen to the crickets.

\---

“So, that’s the gist of it.”

Chibs, in all his years of riding with SAMCRO had never known such a hush fall over the chapel. A thin cloud of smoke from the men’s cigarettes floated above their heads and made everything thick and ashy.

The upstairs of Scoops and Sweets was more spacious than Teller Morrow had been, but somehow today Chibs felt like he was going to choke.

Tig leaned back in his chair, eyeing the assembled bikers. “Any of you ladies got any questions?”

Bessie is at his feet, chewing loudly at a red rubber ball that Chibs keeps finding in the strangest of places; yesterday, it was lodged in one of the ice cream machines.

“I do.” Ratboy speaks first, his voice is trembling but his body portrays nothing but seething anger. “Why the fuck should we care about some Rat?” The venom in each word is toxic. “Right? He betrayed us! And then Jax-“

“Jax got himself killed.” Tig cuts over him, calmer and authoritative; he’s sure of what he knows. “Because he didn’t care about anyone apart from himself in the end.”

Chibs suspected Ratboy would make trouble, and mentally he counted him as a vote not in Juice’s favour. Hopefully the rest of the table would have a more favourable opinion.

But ultimately, it was out of Chib’s hands now.

T.O has his hands folded on the table, and he’s staring at them with a prominent crease in his brow. “It pretty heavy stuff, brother.” He says. “I mean, I didn’t know him that well but I remember him.” He pauses to reflect on Juice. “I always thought he was harmless.”

The statement is true. Juice was like flypaper when it came to trouble, it just stuck to him despite his intentions.

It wasn’t that Juice wasn’t harmless, he just cracked under too much pressure; a tragically human flaw that Chibs realises is pointless to flog someone with. Only, that’s what they did do.

“He was. He is.” Chibs says, reminding himself that Juice isn’t dead.

Yet.

Montez is the next to take his turn to speak, lately he’s grown more confident putting his two cents in at the table.

He licks his lips. “I dunno guys. He stole from you, that shit isn’t okay.” Black and white, good and bad. He’s got a school boy’s moral compass; plus he doesn’t have any personal stake in Juice, as they knew each other only in passing.

“Trust me, man. We’ve gone over this a million times.” Tig is doing a lot of the talking today. “Juice has had his punishment, but we never had ours.”

A couple of the members look alarmed, and a bit miffed at the idea that they are due any kind of penance for Juice’s mistakes.

“We didn’t know all the facts, we just… left him to rot.”

Chibs slowly nods, finding his voice again. “Aye. We can either have Juicey meet Mayhem, or we can take him back.” He takes a long drag from his cig and taps some ash into a small tray but his left hand. He should quite, really, maybe he will when this has been settled. “Either way, we’re erasing a black legacy and starting over.”

Hap hasn’t said a word, which is perfectly fine with Chibs, as he knows where the man stands; or he believes he does, Happy isn’t the kind to have a sudden, unexpected change of heart.

Now, it’s time to put Juice’s life on the scales of fate.

Chibs clears his throat, the last time they took a vote like this, it was the life of their president on the line. How odd it is when things come around in circles. “So…all those in favour of Juice meeting Mr Mayhem, raise your hand.”

A few, tense seconds tick by.

In the end, Ratboy and Montez are the only ones that raise their hands.

That settles it. Chibs bangs the gavel and with the sound of the knock comes the acceptance of Juice for all his flaws, as still something of a brother to SAMCRO.

Ratboy fumes, dark shadows crossing across his vision; but he remained quiet. Perhaps Chibs should send Tig to have a word with him later.

With the decision made, there was nothing else to do but get to work. “Well then gentleman-” Chibs says, not allowing the bloom of relief in his chest be too obvious for them to see. “-I guess we better get busy.”

\---

“Lift from the knees you special Latino.”

Juice wouldn’t call Harry a word-smith, as what comes out of his mouth tends to be too vulgar for such a pretty title. He’s more like a doctor Frankenstein of the spoken word; sewing things together and laughing manically as his creation comes to life.

Well, it’s better than being called a ‘dumb spic’ any day of the week.

“Goddam… this stuff is fucking gross.” Juice drops the tractor tire on the assorted junk pile and wipes his hands on his jeans. They’ve kicked up a good bit of dust and disturbed what had been several spider neighbourhoods in the barn.

They need to make room inside for what is going to be a large gathering of men. Every month Harry hosts a party of sorts for all the AB hopefuls in the tri-state area; as the barn has the spacious and secluded enough to provide the idea venue. Keeping the network humming with communication is key to maintaining the spread of the Brotherhood’s influence; the bosses like to know every tiny detail, tracking every cent made on guns, drugs on whores that they make.

“Let me know if you find any snakes-” Harry casually says, and Juice backs away from the junk pike as if it’s about to hiss and bite him. He can hear Harry sniggering to himself; the guy thinks he’s really funny.

“Why you gotta be like that, man?” He asks, knowing however he won’t get an answer. The man is an unanswerable question, really, or just a plain old asshole.

Kinda like Tig, without the sexual deviance.

“Haaarry.” Raz’s high, exhausted whine cuts through the air. “It’s fucking hot out here.”

Harry gives him a blank look. “It’s Nevada.”

Raz is gleaming with sweat, and already his shoulders have started to crisp in the sun. He is right about the heat, and Juice himself is starting to wilt somewhat with the force of it. California temperatures could be fierce, but Nevada is proving to be quite a challenge.

The dogs are, as always, keeping vigil nearby in the shelter of a car’s waning shadow; the crawl further under at the day goes on, trying to escape the sun. Juice considers running into town and picking up a kiddie pool for them to wade in and cool off.

It’s got to be tough when you have a fur coat on no matter the weather.

“Can’t we have a beer break or something?” He wheedles, as if those kinds of tricks would hurt on Harry.

Blue comes out of the barn carrying a bunch of ropes and bridles, dumping them by the door and dusting off his hands. Like the other men he’s stripped down to his vest, the thick, black patterns from his shoulder to his wrists contain waves, spirals, jagged peaks and a sun adorns his elbow. His brown hair is slick with moisture.

“You’re a fucking pussy mate.” He spits on the floor, which makes Juice wince. “Stop having a whinge. You don’t know what ‘hot’ is. In Albany you could cook an egg on the road in summer.” His accent is thick, rolling across his tongue like molasses.

Raz rubs the back of his neck with his hand. “You know I can’t understand half of what you say.”

Blue glares coldy at him, but it’s not enough to cool anyone down.

“That makes the rest of us,” Harry says, then cracks his back before sighing. “Alright ladies, go and powder your noses.”

Thankful for the reprieve, Raz makes haste towards the trailer; and the fridge full of chilled beers inside. Blue follows at a more measured pace, making sure to bump Juice in the shoulder as he passes.

He smirks. “Sorry, mate.”

Juice could kick his ass, and would, if it wasn’t so hot and if he had the energy.

Harry comes over, and discreetly dips his head to talk into Juice’s ear. “Want me to have a discussion with Kangaroo Jack?”

Juice shrugs it off, letting the Australians prickly nature roll of him like sweat. “I can handle it.”

Blue is the only one who hasn’t come around to Juice’s side yet; which Juice doesn’t much care about one way or the other, he isn’t here to make friends, after all.

“Speaking of handling things-” Harry picks some dirt from out under his nails which makes Juice’s skin crawl. This guy and his bad habits. “How’s the girl?”

Delilah is many things. She’s pretty, for one, perfectly formed, quite good in bed, and she uses lavender scented hand lotion which makes her palms smooth and soft.

But she doesn’t _do_ anything for Juice; that is to say, nothing sparks when they are together. He gets aroused, and cums, but it’s painfully mechanical; like warming up a tired old machine.

Its not her fault; Juice knows it’s all on him, that something inside has been broken.

“She’s alright.” He says, finally.

“Does the squirrel know your burying your nuts in his sister?” Harry is on a roll today.

“I don’t think so, or if he does, he hasn’t said anything about it.” Diesel might be too wrapped up in his crazy little mind to even notice who his sister is banging, in any case.

Harry sweeps back his fringe and gestures to Juice with his head. “She does haircuts as well you know.”

That’s a bit rich coming from someone who looks like he could be in an early 90s music video. But Juice is becoming aware of how long it’s getting, thick, black and curly; like wolf skin. It’s starting to itch at the back, too.

But he remembers Tully told him to grow it out.

“How many guys are we expecting exactly?” He asks Harry, as a method of distraction.

“Tri-state area members, so a few dozen maybe.” Harry muses. “Of course, it fluctuates, there’s a lot of dying going on in the younger ranks. Mainly because the bosses don’t want to risk getting their own asses blown up or shot.”

They really are on the front line, the younger ones.

“No one likes that.” Juice agrees, then he peers down the dusty road. “I wonder where those assholes have gone to.”

“Probably making sweet Aryan love somewhere.”

Juice snorts, now that’s an image he wasn’t expecting to have today. Still, it would explain why those two were nearly always together. “That’s nasty.” The sun was climbing ever higher, and glaring down its heat onto the parched land. “I need a drink too, man. My balls are melting.”

Harry acquiesced, and they strolled towards the trailer; finding it empty, but with a note pinned to the door.

Or rather, a picture.

More of a childish scrawl, showing two men in the act of falacio. Juice guess the smaller, brown gentleman on the paper with the dick in his mouth was meant to be him. The steady boil of anger that had been simmering ever since he got here now burns hotter.

Harry tilted his head, as if the picture was some abstract work of art he wasn’t quite getting.

Juice tore it down from the door. “Don’t laugh, this a good night for me.”      

“I see someone didn’t get an A in art class.” Harry looked around for Blue and Raz, before leaning over Juice like a shadow. “My offer still stands, y’know.”

Juice lifted his head, and firmly set his jaw. “I said I’ll handle it.”


	18. Author's apology

Hi guys, I'm sorry this fic has been so inactive for so long. Essentially I suffered a burnout and started a new job, so I was completely overwhelmed in RL and lost my motivation. But my interest in this fic is returning, so I should have a new chapter out soon, just bare with me. 

Thanks, I love you all <3  
\- RWNN


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